


finer company than I deserve

by gryfeathr



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Bisexual Disaster, Bisexual Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Blackwall (Dragon Age) Spoilers, Dragon Age Kink Meme, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, Drinking & Talking, F/F, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Pining, Platonic Relationships, Solas (Dragon Age) Spoilers, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 17:16:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20139085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gryfeathr/pseuds/gryfeathr
Summary: De-anon from the Dragon Age Kink Meme(Spoilers for Inquistion, in its entire)Blackwall was remanded into the care of the Grey Wardens, but after the fall of Corypheus, its finally time for them to collect. Only that's not all they're here to find, and Inquisitor Trevelyan still has too many accounts to settle. She's not ready to give him up; and to make matters more complicated, the arrival of the Hero of Fereldan has turned her entire court upside down.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt from the Dragon Age Kink Meme: https://dragonage-kink.dreamwidth.org/90046.html?thread=363217598
> 
> "so I imagine after Corypheus is defeated and the Inquisitor has promised Blackwall being sent to the Wardens, that some Warden of importance comes to get him. Well what if it's the HOF that comes to get him.
> 
> a variety of things could happen. Their LI could be at Skyhold (Morrigan (feat Kieran probably) or Leliana) Cassandra could feel some type of way since she wanted the HOF to come when there was a crisis.
> 
> Bull could be star struck because he heard stories about them from Sten. Sera could be too since She was around during the blight. Pretty much anyone but Solas gets to interact with them.
> 
> +They're an anti-circle Amell/Surana that disagrees with Vivienne's views on the circle but still gets along with her when they meet.  
+if Leliana is the LI she's been elected Divine which is also part of the visit.  
+Blackwall and HOF have an entire conversation without verbally saying anything and everyone is confused."

They all knew this day would come eventually. 

It had been promised since the day Trevelyn sat upon the hard throne at the head of Skyhold’s main hall and studied Thom Rainier, angry and defeated, with his hands manacled behind his back. The soft colors of the stained glass windows behind her painted his rough face and taught shoulders in reds and golds. The choice had been clear. The only way to save his life was to commit it to the purpose he'd yearned for all along. She had pronounced the sentence in no uncertain terms.

The hall had broken into urgent whispers and muffled shouts while she descended the stairs. A sharp gesture to the soldiers standing back against the walls pulled them forward, stunned but well-trained. She'd stood before Thom Rainier as they undid his chains, and she couldn't truly read the expression in his face as he'd stared at her, saved.

"He'd already been committed to the Wardens," she told someone--she couldn't remember who now. Her eyes have been on Thom Rainier. He couldn’t meet her gaze. "Any man or woman claimed by them is free of their past. I am simply fulfilling the treaties."

That had been then, but this was now.

Today, she stood just outside the doors to Skyhold's main hall. Scouts had reported spotting a ragged contingent of three Wardens astride tired horses coming up the mountain pass. Blackwall had been informed and he was somewhere in the barn preparing himself. She wondered if he was praying to Andraste--no, that wasn't like him. It was more likely he was studying the armor meant for a different man and going over his choices. Thinking about all the paths that he could have taken, but didn’t.

"Inquisitor, you look like you're ready for a dragon to come knocking at our door, not some Wardens," said Varric, coming out of the hall behind her to stand at her side. 

"Is there a difference, really," she asked aloud, and he snorted.

"C'mon. They're Weishaupt Wardens, that's supposed to mean they're not going to start summoning demons on our heads."

"I'm not worried about that," she said, but she sighed and knew she was being a little silly. "So far, my experience with Wardens is demon summoning or pretend or falling to pieces. I'd like to meet a real one that isn't out to get me."

"Think you'll get your wish right about.....uh, now," Varric said, and the horns were sounding from the walls. She could just see from her vantage point the red snap of Skyhold bannermen, and the three tired figures on horseback crossing the Skyhold Bridge behind them.

"Time to go be Important, I guess," she said, forcing her arms to relax. She looked down at herself to check the set of her clothes. She had put on golden scale armor, functional and intimidating, and a wide belt that had runes worked into it to keep her energy up. She'd need it. She tightened the buckle. 

"You'll be fine," Varric said.

"It's not me I'm worried about," she muttered, and Varric gave her a wry half smile. She set her shoulders and headed down wide steps to go meet their visitors in her courtyard.

Josephine was already there, resplendent in summer gold and imported Antivan silk scarves. She had turned to Leliana standing beside her in intent conversation. Leliana still wore her dark spymaster clothes, which gave the hand wringing Chantry attendants from Orlais inside Skyhold conniptions, and remained a welcome steady calm in the ensuing storm. A polite scattering of soldiers stood off to the side and behind them was every member of Skyhold’s current population.

Inquisitor Trevelyan swallowed a sigh and stalked past under the urgent gazes of dignitaries, captains, and cooks to take up her post between her two advisors. 

"Remember, Inquisitor," whispered Josephine, right on time, and Trevelyan did her best to hide a smile, "The Wardens may have sent a higher ranking officer. We don’t know yet. But you still hold the power here. They can claim prisoners at will and Thom Rainier is technically their ward, but you are the one who announced they could have him. They must adhere to your timeline and pay you respect, or risk offense in the face of the Inquisition’s gestures of support."

"I know, Josephine," Trevelyan said, resting her hand on her belt. Not on her sword, no matter how much she’d welcome the cold metal of the hilt under her hand.

"I wish you'd found out who was coming, Leliana," Josephine added. Trevelyan glanced aside at the spy master.

But Leliana was paying neither of them any attention. As the Wardens and their mounts passed out of the dark shadows of the front gate into the bright light of the front courtyard, a strange stillness had come over her. The fine mask of distance and amusement had slipped. Her eyes had widened and she sucked in a sharp breath.

Trevelyan batted back a stab of dismay and panic.

"Leliana?" Josephine said, voice low and worried and they had no time for discussion right now.

The Wardens had passed the gate. That was Trevelyan’s cue.

Trevelyan kept to the script with a polite smile and a sick drop in her stomach as the Wardens dismounted, striding forward to meet them. Their lead rider was a slender woman baked into hard wrinkles by a distant sun, short with weary eyes and hair striped with silver that matched the gleam of the Warden’s silver stitched into her padded jerkin. She reminded Trevelyan of the Free Marcher Banns from home. The same stoic, scrappy temper. 

But with a giant damn mage staff balanced over her shoulder.

"Welcome to Skyhold," said Trevelyan, doing her best to not stare at elegant war staff. "You've come a long way, Wardens. Might I have the names of my guests?”

The Warden in front of her smiled, just slightly. Trevelyan’s skin itched between her shoulder-blades, the same itch from when an archer had an arrow pointed at her from behind. Astonished and amazed whispers ran throughout the crowd.

She was just about to be out-flanked.

"Warden-Commander Amell, at your service," the woman said, and Trevelyan’s heart stopped. Josephine made an involuntary noise.

That had been the name on the letter. The one that Leliana had mysteriously received when they had searched for...

"The Hero of Ferelden?" Trevelyan squawked.

"They call me that sometimes," said the Warden-Commander with a weary twist to her mouth. But then the Warden-Commander's eyes lifted past Trevelyan’s shoulder. 

The Warden-Commander’s wryness froze, reflecting the way Trevelyan’s breath had left her. It was sort of nice to see the Warden-Commander look as off kilter as Trevelyan felt. But it only lasted a moment; the startled expression turned inexplicably fond.

"I'm sorry for not telling you earlier, Leliana," the Warden-Commander said, and that seemed to break the silent spell over the courtyard. Murmurs and shouts rang off the stone walls along with the sound of feet hitting the ground. Petty officers ran off to spread the word--the Hero of Ferelden had reappeared, and she stood in Skyhold.

"I should hope so," came Leliana's voice, contrite. "I've been trying to get letters properly to you for months."

"There's been trouble, as I'm sure you're well aware," said the Warden-Commander, and one of the Warden's behind her cleared his throat. 

The Warden-Commander tore her eyes away from Leliana and stepped to the side, gesturing at her fellow Wardens. Trevelyan forced herself into a grim smile. What was that? What had that been all about? She’d officially lost control of the situation.

"With me, is Warden Howe and Warden Ganner," she added. Howe was a severe looking man with dark hair and an unstrung bow at his back, while Ganner was stouter and seemed to favor a sword and shield. 

"We're delighted to have such esteemed guests," said Josephine, finally swooping in to save the day at this sudden upset in protocol while Trevelyan’s brain struggled to catch up. What were the proper dance steps for welcoming the person who'd defeated a Blight in under two years? Trevelyan felt a little light-headed. 

Josephine launched into the proper motions of welcoming guests, arranging the horses to be stabled and sweeping Trevelyan into leading the three Wardens up and into the hall. It bought Trevelyan time to regain her composure as she studied the Hero of Ferelden.

Warden-Commander Amell's eyes were always moving with a hardened edge that gave the impression she was counting exits and assassin-filled alcoves. She seemed to pay Josephine only half of her attention. Leliana was a shadow on their heels. 

Josephine was saying, 

"I understand that you're practical people that would rather not waste time. But we have accommodations ready for you, of course, if you'd like to take a moment or a few days to rest after your long ride.... It’s the least we can do."

"We're not here to be diplomats, Amell," hissed Warden Howe. 

Trevelyan instantly decided she disliked him.

"Nathaniel," said the Warden-Commander, giving him a sharp look and putting out a hand to quiet him. "We'd be honored, Ambassador, to take you up on your hospitality. But I must ask first--where is the recruit Thom Rainier?"

They'd reached the foot of the judgement dias, bathed in red light this time of day. Josephine's eyes flicked to Trevelyan, just briefly, but it was enough to turn all three wardens to face her. 

Trevelyan tried not to let the rampant gryphon on the Warden-Commander's chest intimidate her, and met her eyes steadily. It was like trying to stand against a force of nature, wind or water, but she squared her shoulders.

"He's readying himself for travel," she said, plainly. "I could send for him, but it’d only delay all of you."

The Warden-Commander searched her face. Trevelyan kept her expression steady and stern, even as her mind was screaming, /This is the Hero of Ferelden by the maker Cassandra is going to either murder me or her and what is going on what am I supposed to do everyone's been looking for her! She's the Hero of bloody Ferelden!/

The Warden-Commander nodded, just slightly, and looked away. 

"That's good enough for me," she announced. "Ambassador, our rooms?"

A soft breath of relief seemed to come from every member of the Inquisition present, while Warden Howe made a disdainful noise and Garren looked relieved. 

Josephine showed the Wardens to their rooms personally, leaving Trevelyan a moment to breathe and count her blessings in the hall. She turned to the side, where Leliana had been hovering just a moment ago, but the future Divine had left at some point and was nowhere to be found.

Just great.

She supposed she should tell Cassandra, if the rumour-mill hadn't found her already.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra hears the news; Trevelyan encourages drinking; Unexpected allies arrive in the cellar; there are more questions than answers.

Cassandra looked like she’d been struck by a hammer on the back of the head, dismay warring with fury, when Trevelyan found her standing by the armory. Trevelyan hurried her steps, reaching out to touch her arm.

“Cassandra? I assume you’ve heard?”

“I looked for her for so many years, when we needed her, and now that it’s all over, she just walks in the front door,” Cassandra said, her voice dull as she tolerated the contact. Trevelyan’s heart wrenched; she knew well enough exactly how much it had weighed on Cassandra, even now, that she had not been able to find either of the women the previous Divine had requested. The doubts, the worries--those had been set aside a long time ago, but that was different than this. 

“Come on, I need someone to freak out with,” Trevelyan announced, turning the touch into a grab and dragging Cassandra across the courtyard with her. 

“I--what? Inquisitor, what are you doing?” Cassandra protested, stumbling along with her. It was mostly politeness that kept her from tossing Trevelyan to the ground.

“Taking you to the cellars with me,” said Trevelyan. “So I can scream.”

“Mind a little bit of company?” said Varric, trotting to catch up with them. For a moment Trevelyan wondered where he’d come from, but then she realized: he’d been on his way to Cassandra once he’d heard. He knew, perhaps better than anyone, what this meant to her.

“Not at all,” Trevelyan said, while Cassandra scowled and said, “Absolutely not.”

“Sorry, Seeker, the other lady’s in charge,” said Varric, and the needling seemed to thaw some of the shock. Cassandra wrenched her arm out of Trevelyan’s grip, but she walked with her towards the back entrance to the cellars. As they crossed the yards, Trevelyan took a good look at the state of the people there; it was easy to pick out the veterans from Ferelden, because they were talking together intensely and quickly with strange looks in their eyes. 

Oh, right. This path to the cellars also went by…

...the barn, Trevelyan realized slowly, as her attention landed on the wide open barn door and the shadow of the broad man standing inside it. 

“--I’ll catch up with you. Take her to that empty room with the spiders and don’t let her leave,” Trevelyan ordered Varric, who gave her a nod.

“You got it, Inquisitor,” he said, and Cassandra sputtered but Trevelyan had already broken away from them.

“Blackwall,” Trevelyan called. As she drew closer, she could see his details inside the slanting shadow of the building; his sad eyes, stern mouth, and generous beard. He had that distant look in his eyes, the same one when he’d told her the story of being a young man who had ignored the torture of a dog. The sort of look that looked passed a person by without seeing them.

“Inquisitor,” he greeted, his voice weighty. 

She hesitated a moment, trying to sort out her words as they regarded each other. 

“I heard that the Wardens have arrived,” he said, saving her from herself. “I….” 

Now he was hesitating, as if not sure what to make of it.

“They’re saying it’s the Hero of Ferelden that’s come for me,” he finally finished, voice faint.

“It’s true,” said Trevelyan. “Leliana recognized her. I don’t know what this means, but you’ll…. You’ll be in fine company.”

“Finer company than I deserve,” he said, and she hated when he did that. 

“Finer company than most of us deserve,” she said, tone sharp. She regretted it instantly as his eyes shadowed. “Look, they didn’t ask for you right away. I can buy you some time, whatever time you need to be ready.”

“You don’t need to do that,” Blackwall said firmly, looking away from her and his face tight. “This is more than you ever needed to do.”

Complicated feelings with sharp edges churned in her stomach. Betrayal, determination. Desperate friendship. She didn’t want to lose Blackwall, even if she was still furious. Even if she hated the nature of his lie and despised the things he’d done, he was still…...Blackwall. 

Well, Thom. Rainier? Her mind couldn’t settle on just one name. Instead it just batted around options like a kitten.

“I don’t need to do anything,” she agreed. “But they are not taking you a moment before I am ready to give you over. Not a moment before.”

“Well, you’re in charge,” Blackwall said, not exactly disagreeing. 

“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t do that to me.”

He at least had the presence of mind to look a bit ashamed, averting his eyes away from her.

“Figure out how to live as Thom Rainier,” she snapped at him. “I want to truly meet him before you walk out those Fade-dammed gates. You owe me that much.”

It forced him to look at her again, really look at her, even if it was with surprised bewilderment--it was an expression she was getting used to seeing on everyone now--and she turned away, leaving him in the shadows of the barn.

“You owe Warden-Commander Amell that much,” she added over her shoulder as she walked away.

Cassandra looked like she’d been struck by a hammer on the back of the head, dismay warring with fury, when Trevelyan found her standing by the armory. Trevelyan hurried her steps, reaching out to touch her arm.

“Cassandra? I assume you’ve heard?”

“I looked for her for so many years, when we needed her, and now that it’s all over, she just walks in the front door,” Cassandra said, her voice dull as she tolerated the contact. Trevelyan’s heart wrenched; she knew well enough exactly how much it had weighed on Cassandra, even now, that she had not been able to find either of the women the previous Divine had requested. The doubts, the worries--those had been set aside a long time ago, but that was different than this. 

“Come on, I need someone to freak out with,” Trevelyan announced, turning the touch into a grab and dragging Cassandra across the courtyard with her. 

“I--what? Inquisitor, what are you doing?” Cassandra protested, stumbling along with her. It was mostly politeness that kept her from tossing Trevelyan to the ground.

“Taking you to the cellars with me,” said Trevelyan. “So I can scream.”

“Mind a little bit of company?” said Varric, trotting to catch up with them. For a moment Trevelyan wondered where he’d come from, but then she realized: he’d been on his way to Cassandra once he’d heard. He knew, perhaps better than anyone, what this meant to her.

“Not at all,” Trevelyan said, while Cassandra scowled and said, “Absolutely not.”

“Sorry, Seeker, the other lady’s in charge,” said Varric, and the needling seemed to thaw some of the shock. Cassandra wrenched her arm out of Trevelyan’s grip, but she walked with her towards the back entrance to the cellars. As they crossed the yards, Trevelyan took a good look at the state of the people there; it was easy to pick out the veterans from Ferelden, because they were talking together intensely and quickly with strange looks in their eyes. 

Oh, right. This path to the cellars also went by…

...the barn, Trevelyan realized slowly, as her attention landed on the wide open barn door and the shadow of the broad man standing inside it. 

“--I’ll catch up with you. Take her to that empty room with the spiders and don’t let her leave,” Trevelyan ordered Varric, who gave her a nod.

“You got it, Inquisitor,” he said, and Cassandra sputtered but Trevelyan had already broken away from them.

“Blackwall,” Trevelyan called. As she drew closer, she could see his details inside the slanting shadow of the building; his sad eyes, stern mouth, and generous beard. He had that distant look in his eyes, the same one when he’d told her the story of being a young man who had ignored the torture of a dog. The sort of look that looked passed a person by without seeing them.

“Inquisitor,” he greeted, his voice weighty. 

She hesitated a moment, trying to sort out her words as they regarded each other. 

“I heard that the Wardens have arrived,” he said, saving her from herself. “I….” 

Now he was hesitating, as if not sure what to make of it.

“They’re saying it’s the Hero of Ferelden that’s come for me,” he finally finished, voice faint.

“It’s true,” said Trevelyan. “Leliana recognized her. I don’t know what this means, but you’ll…. You’ll be in fine company.”

“Finer company than I deserve,” he said, and she hated when he did that. 

“Finer company than most of us deserve,” she said, tone sharp. She regretted it instantly as his eyes shadowed. “Look, they didn’t ask for you right away. I can buy you some time, whatever time you need to be ready.”

“You don’t need to do that,” Blackwall said firmly, looking away from her and his face tight. “This is more than you ever needed to do.”

Complicated feelings with sharp edges churned in her stomach. Betrayal, determination. Desperate friendship. She didn’t want to lose Blackwall, even if she was still furious. Even if she hated the nature of his lie and despised the things he’d done, he was still…...Blackwall. 

Well, Thom. Rainier? Her mind couldn’t settle on just one name. Instead it just batted around options like a kitten.

“I don’t need to do anything,” she agreed. “But they are not taking you a moment before I am ready to give you over. Not a moment before.”

“Well, you’re in charge,” Blackwall said, not exactly disagreeing. 

“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t do that to me.”

He at least had the presence of mind to look a bit ashamed, averting his eyes away from her.

“Figure out how to live as Thom Rainier,” she snapped at him. “I want to truly meet him before you walk out those Fade-dammed gates. You owe me that much.”

It forced him to look at her again, really look at her, even if it was with surprised bewilderment--it was an expression she was getting used to seeing on everyone now--and she turned away, leaving him in the shadows of the barn.

“You owe Warden-Commander Amell that much,” she added over her shoulder as she walked away.

It seemed her day for running into people. When she finally stepped into the dusty room in the castle basement behind the kitchens, the one next to the old collection of wines and the strange room with the books in it, Cassandra and Varric were no longer alone. She felt a small stab of relief seeing Cullen’s fur ruff from behind, and she was starting to smile until his tone registered in her ears. 

“Are you serious?” he was saying, his voice sounding urgent and angry. “It’s the Hero of Ferelden? Warden Amell?”

“Warden-Commander Amell, Curly, you gotta get it right,” Varric said, looking intrigued underneath the casual way he was leaning back in an old chair. A bottle of Orlesian wine was already open on the table in front of him.

“Warden-Commander….” Cullen repeated dumbly. 

“If I’m to be trapped in this room by the dwarf, you might as well join me,” Cassandra snapped, flinty now--it meant she was embarrassed-- and she gestured roughly to the bottle on the table. 

“Oh, good, I’m not the only one internally screaming,” Trevelyan said, brightly, and Cullen started. He looked, of all things, guilty as he spun on his heel to face her, his hand running through his hair. His ruddy skin was unusually pale. She brushed past him, grabbed at the bottle, and lifted it to inspect the vintage. 

“I chose one of the cheap ones. I think we need ‘drunk’ more than ‘tasty’,” Varric said.

“Thanks,” she said, and she drank a mouthful from the bottle. It was only a little vile, and she swallowed and wiped the wine off her mouth before thumping it back down to the table.

“Do you have duties to attend to?” Cassandra asked, some of the stiffness leaving her shoulders.

“Oh, no, not yet,” Trevelyan replied, forcing her tone bright and cheery. “Josephine is wrangling the Wardens. According to her plans, they’re going to sit and freshen up and plot together for a few hours, and then she’ll call everyone for an early state dinner.”

“For Wardens?” said Cullen. 

“She sent you a memo, Cullen,” Trevelyan said, the edge of her mouth twitching. Normally she could get him to laugh or at least look abashed, but he just got very quiet and looked at the door behind her with a worried line between his brows. 

“Anyway,” Trevelyan forged on, “I’m sure all her plans are out the window right now. They aren’t just Wardens, it's the Hero of Ferelden, so now we have to put on the spit and polish. Although I have a feeling the Warden-Commander won’t actually care much for it.”

“Wait, that means--” Cullen said suddenly. A State Dinner meant the Commander of the Inquisition was required to attend.

“Yes, if I have to suffer, so do you,” said Trevelyan. 

Cullen looked faint and Trevelyan stepped in close to him to grab his arm, worried he might fall. Cassandra looked him over once with a scathing air. 

“Sit down, Cullen,” Cassandra ordered, and Cullen found an empty chair next to Varric and plopped into it with a rattle of metal. 

“You don’t have to come to dinner,” Trevelyan said, bewildered. What in the world was going on with her advisors today? First Leliana, now this. 

“Of...of course I do,” he said as he shook his head and gripped the arms of the chair in an effort to appear grounded. “I don’t think I remember the table arrangements. Where was I?”

“I’m at the head of the table, and the Wardens will be to my right. The Advisors to the left…” she trailed off, trying to dimly recall the diagram Josephine had shoved under her nose. “You’re either next to me or Josephine, I can’t remember.”

“Right across from them,” he said. 

“Yes,” said Trevelyan. “Um. Are you….alright?”

The question snapped him out of it. The color rushed back into his face the other way, and he straightened his shoulders.

“Of course, I’m fine,” he said. “I just--I’ve met her before. Briefly. Distantly. Very distantly.”

“Oh, so you two have history?” said Varric, coming over. He’d been scrounging cups, and he poured wine into a dusty goblet with fake glass rubies and shoved it in front of Cullen.

“We don’t have a history!” Cullen protested, grabbing the cup to gesture in protest. “She just--ah--I was in Ferelden, at the time of the Blight, that’s all.”

“Leave it be, dwarf,” said Cassandra suddenly. She leaned forward and pointed at a metal traveler’s cup sitting on the table. “Pour some for me, if you’re going to do this.”

Varric’s eyebrows went up and he splashed some into the mug, before sliding it into Cassandra’s hands. The woman leaned back, cupping the mug between her palms, and stared into its depths.

“You can’t just leave it at that, Curly. This has a good story written all over it,” Varric said.

Cullen drank wine rather than respond, back straight and clinging to the image of a strict, distant commander. As if by pretending to be a wall decoration Varric would give up on him.

Trevelyan wondered quietly, pouring herself a cup. She strained to recall Cullen talking about his time as a Templar, before the Inquisition had rescued him from Kirkwall. But he hated talking about it. Too many of his nightmares were about it; about Kirkwall, about the Blight.

“I never thought I’d ever meet her in person,” Cassandra mused into the silence, turning her cup this way and that. “They all keep showing up after I’ve tried to find them. I wonder what has her here now.”

“Thom Rainier is a high profile case,” Trevelyan ventured. “And the Warden’s have few people of rank in this part of Thedas now.”

“Yeah, but wasn’t she supposed to not even be in this part of the world right now?” Varric said. “I remember you managed to get a letter to her, asking about the Wardens and Corypheus, but she said she had a mission or something.”

“Leliana said she fought with her during the Blight,” Trevelyan said. “Maybe they have business.”

“That’s another story I think best left alone,” Cassandra said. She sipped her wine. “It’s best we get this business over with and ship Rainier off to be the Warden’s problem.”

Trevelyan pressed her lips into a thin line.

Varric looked at her and leaned forward, taking the excuse to pour himself wine.

“Awe, don’t be like that, Seeker,” said Varric. “I’m looking forward to trying to get her drunk and get some Blight stories out of her. I’m still looking for a proper next book subject. Wardens are always popular.”

“You will not get the Warden-Commander drunk!” Cassandra said, sitting up straight and giving him a hard look. “She’s far too fine a woman for that kind of treatment.”

“I thought you were angry at her,” Varric said, one brow arching.

“I’m--I’m not angry,” Cassandra said, flustered. “She’s a mage, one of the finest. Her leadership during the Ferelden Blight is the matter of war theory textbooks.”

“You’ve read about her?” Varric said, a glint in his eye.

“Of course I did, we were looking for her,” Cassandra huffed.

“She is a fine woman at that,” Cullen agreed, softly, and he sucked in a breath as if he’d said it by accident. “I mean, yes. Yes she was a fine commander.”

Trevelyan eyed Cullen side-long. “Alright, who else do I know has some sort of connection with the Hero of Ferelden?”

“I don’t have a connection--” Cullen started.

“Let’s see,” said Varric, starting to count fingers as he slumped back in his chair. “Seeker here was looking for her. Curley met her. Nightingale fought in the Blight. Iron Lady is probably gonna wanna get her political hands all over her. The real Blackwall might’ve met her? I knew someone who’d met her, I guess that doesn’t count. Sera might’ve met her.”

“Wait, Dwarf,” said Cassandra abruptly, “Who was it that knew the Warden-Commander that /you/ knew?”

“You don’t have to say it like that, I know lots of people,” said Varric. “Case in point, somehow I even know you.”

Cassandra made a disgusted sound in the back of her throat. 

Trevelyan focused on the cup in her hands, then knocked back what was left in it. The wine didn’t burn, exactly, but it did feel like it coated her throat in something. She thumped the cup back down to the table.

“She’s not that scary, right. She’s just here for Blackwall,” she said, but Varric had a look on his face as if he’d realized something noxious, his brows furrowed and his mouth twisted a bit at one side. 

“I don’t know,” said Cullen. He seemed to have rallied a little bit, brow furrowed while he studied his own empty cup and turned it back and forth.

“What do you mean?” Trevelyan said. He looked at her, jaw tight.

“The Warden-Commander is a high profile person,” said Cullen. “The Wardens as an organization are canny enough about politics to understand that. You don’t send someone with that clout just to pick up a recruit, no matter who that recruit is, unless you’re desperate or have additional motives. A minor detail could do, even if they are expecting trouble on the road from people who want revenge on him.”

Trevelyan bit the inside of her cheek. She’d been trying to tell herself this was mostly Blackwall’s high profile case, but.

But.

“If you were in charge of the Wardens, what would you be trying to do?” she ventured.

“Me? Well.” Cullen shrugged. “Perhaps hope to impress us with their military strength? A reminder that they are not weak, despite the issues with the Orlesian Wardens.”

“Maybe she volunteered,” said Varric.

“These questions are what Leliana is for,” said Cassandra stiffly. “I am overjoyed for her opportunity as Divine, but her upcoming duties may have distracted her. I keep telling her we need to accelerate the transfer of her role as Spymaster.”

Trevelyan stood up abruptly, not in the mood to discuss ‘transfer of duties’ or anything else that messed with the upper echelons of her Inquisition.

“I’ll go talk to her, then, and see if I can’t get a better idea of what we’re dealing with,” she announced.

“Good luck,” Varric said, saluting her with the wine bottle.

“Thanks,” she replied, offering him a flicker of smile before heading out of the room. Behind her, she could hear Varric refocusing.

“Now, Curly, I know you don’t want to talk about it, but when exactly…”

He was viciously stubborn when he wanted to be, and it made her smile.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian makes a fine observation; Trevelyan presides over dinner; two heroes talk shop about saving the world; Leliana disappears.

Josephine caught her in the main hall.

“There you are,” she called, ducking around gossiping visiting dignitaries and the thick red carpet that bisected the room. “I’ve been wondering where you’ve been. I’ve got our guests in the rooms overlooking the courtyard.”

“The ones on the same side as that old arrow in the roof?” Trevelyan asked.

“The--oh, yes,” Josephine said, smiling brilliantly. “I wanted to talk to you about some arrangements.”

Trevelyan glanced at the clusters of courtiers and merchants that hung around the long tables in the hall and took her meaning; this was not the place to add fuel to rumor fires about discussing what the hell they were going to do with Ferelden Heroes. She nodded, and they adjourned to Josephine’s office just next to the hall. Bits of hard sap in the firewood popped in the fireplace, a comforting crinkling noise that softened the hum of conversation that seeped through the heavy door. Josephine started pacing, hands moving in the air, while Trevelyan sank into the heavy chair that faced the fireplace and stuck her feet towards the heat. 

“I can’t believe Leliana had no idea it was the Hero of Ferelden!” Josephine said, breathless now. “This changes everything! I was expecting someone from the Anders hills or Orlais, the meal was simple, of course, but I have no Ferelden desserts and there’s no time to add them!”

“I don’t think Wardens worry much about dessert,” Trevelyan said. 

“Of course they do, everyone does,” said Josephine. “It’s a luxury they can rarely afford or indulge in. If we could give them something from home, it would immensely color their thoughts towards us, even if subconsciously.”

“Dessert war,” Trevelyan wondered aloud.

“You have no idea. In Orlais, I saw entire arguments ended over dessert,” Josephine sighed, stopping by the large window and crossing her arms over her stomach. “And of course, Leliana’s disappeared, so I’m left to guess at these things by myself. I had hoped to catch her and ask her what she knows about Warden-Commander Amell, but she’s gone.”

“She had a strange reaction,” Trevelyan said carefully.

“I know that she admires the Warden-Commander immensely,” Josephine said, still pacing but drawing in on herself as she did it. “And that they’ve been exchanging letters unofficially. I suppose I’m a little worried. With the Divine business on the horizon, and now an old war friend….”

“She’ll show up for dinner,” said Trevelyan. “That’s duty, and Leliana knows the value of a good political unified front.”

“Yes, I hope she’s alright,” said Josephine. She stopped in front of one of her windows, lifting her face to gaze upward. The soft light from the leaded glass in front of her stole any hints of harsh lines from her face and brought out the brown highlights in her hair. Her brow was furrowed, her mouth pursed with worry.

“Leliana’s a grown woman. She’ll be fine. I intend to talk to her when I can find her,” said Trevelyan. A strange anxiety dug into her chest and lungs. Everything slipped away from her, stealing through her grasp, and for a moment it felt like the room fell away from her and there was only her, in the chair, and Josephine, a gently gilded statue with the benevolent, concerned face that belonged in a chantry’s halls.

“Thank you,” said Josephine, turning to look at her and smile quietly.

Trevelyan smiled back, heart racing.

“So, we really should have been able to give her an honor guard or something coming in, huh,” said Trevelyan. 

“Yes! And invited dignitaries--do you know the people I could finally lure up here with the promise of meeting the Hero of Ferelden?” said Josephine, throwing up her hands. 

“She might have been trying to avoid that,” said Trevelyan, wondering suddenly if people had the same thoughts whenever she visited them. 

“Considering her position, she’s used to it,” Josephine said, waving a hand. “And I have no qualms about using her reputation considering what we did for the Wardens already. And, another thing--”

The conversation devolved into policy and politics, mostly Josephine taking time to let off some steam and her fluster at the sudden change. Trevelyan hmmed, nodded, and poured her a glass of watered down ale in concern that Josephine might lose her voice talking so quickly. 

Trevelyan was young enough that the story of the Hero of Ferelden had been passing around when she’d been a child, and she wondered quietly why she wasn’t in deeper awe of the woman. The Blight had been a Ferelden event, and the Marches where Trevelyan had grown up had not felt its hand. Not directly.

She remembered the flood of refugees. She remembered the quarantines. Of course, she’d also fought Darkspawn personally--including a moment of panic when some gore had splashed on her face near her mouth, and she’d gargled a horrible salt and herbs concoction for a week to make sure she had not swallowed any of it. 

But faced with the Hero of Ferelden, she felt oddly nothing. Panic and irritation and a deep well of feeling she refused to investigate clearly, but otherwise - nothing.

Soon it was time for dinner, and Josephine had things to double check. Trevelyan took time to look presentable in her rooms, more for the sake of Josephine than the Wardens. She spotted them immediately when she came back down. They were in a defensive knot near the throne dais, the torches of the hall leaving deep and foreboding shadows on their faces, and they looked out of place in blue and silver when everything else was decorated in red and gold.

Vivienne, on the other hand, matched them nicely in her white and silver robes as she cut through the crowd, polite smile on her face.

Trevelyan watched with lifted brows, drifting into casual eavesdropping range of the four of them.

“What esteemed guests we have this evening,” said Vivienne. “It’s a pleasure to see some competent men and women from the Wardens in Skyhold.”

The double-edged compliment made Howe frown and Ganner crossed his arms, but Amell’s mouth twitched. She stepped forward, offering Vivienne a hand. 

“Warden-Commander Amell, at your service, Lady de Fer,” said the Warden-Commander.

“Why you do have me at quite the disadvantage,” said Vivienne, taking it smoothly despite Trevelyan knowing, instinctively, she would have refused such a personal gesture from most other people. “Granted, your reputation precedes you, Warden-Commander.”

“As does yours, as the incipient Grand Enchanter,” said Amell, and there was a certain edge in her tone that made Trevelyan think she should perhaps make herself part of the conversation. Vivienne simply paused, deliberately, refusing to show she’d heard anything in it.

“Oh, my dear, I wouldn’t dare to be so presumptuous,” said Vivienne. “That would require a vote of all the Circle Mages. Well, those few loyal souls still left in Orlais and Ferelden.”

“I don’t know if there will be enough Circle left to have a vote or anything to rule over,” said Amell mildly. “My understanding is the new Divine will have some revolutionary thoughts on the matter.”

“You’re quite well informed, considering how long it’s been we’ve had the pleasure to see you lately in the east,” said Vivienne. “I’m looking forward to seeing what our new Divine will have in mind. Granted, an institution as storied and established as the Circle is simply necessary, my dear. I imagine the Divine would be quite aware of that.”

“I don’t know,” said Amell, expression stern. “I agree that mentorship for mages is deadly important and essential, but the Circle’s already proven it’s flaws.”

“It’s only as flawed as the policies and leadership,” said Vivienne, fluttering her fingers as it tossing them away. “Of course Fiona tried her best, but honestly, calling a vote in such unsteady times as they were….surely you can relate, the chaos did the Wardens few favors.”

“War does nobody good and made fertile ground for the Darkspawn,” said Amell, her gaze steady on Vivienne and her chin lifted slightly. Her voice was even and Trevelyan wondered if that was temperament or Amell trying very hard. “But that would not have happened if the mages had received more humane treatment, or if the system was designed to punish Templar overreach.”

“Exactly, my dear,” said Vivienne, smoothly slipping back to her point and pressing her hand to her chest. “There’s no point in destroying the centuries of knowledge and reputation of the best of the Circles over a few missteps. It works in many places.”

“It works because some Circles were gifted more autonomy by the Chantry, but people are still scared of them and rely on the Rite of Annulment,” said Amell with a sharp shake of her head. “The Circles were far too isolated from each other, there’s no communication between them under the Chantry oversight.”

“Communication is certainly a cornerstone of cooperation,” said Vivienne, a bright gleam in her eye as the corner of her mouth lifted.

Vivienne had leaned in towards Warden-Commander Amell a little, back straight, her hands sketching her words out in the air between them. Amell had stepped in towards her, head lifted, and managed to make Trevelyan forget she only came up to Vivienne’s shoulder. 

Both women seemed intent on each other, their eyes bright and words passing between them in an even rhythm. Vivienne spoke; Amell shook her head, and sketched out something with her hand. Vivienne laughed, politely, and gestured elegantly to outline a point.

Perhaps Trevelyan didn’t need to casually eavesdrop on them after all.

Trevelyan felt strangely disappointed, relegated to the background even as she passed amongst the dignitaries that normally fell over themselves for her attention. As people filled the hall, all the talk was focused on the Warden-Commander; stories of her defeating a wolf monster in southern Ferelden; descriptions from a cousin’s cousin who had seen her in Denerim; rumours that she’d once been romantically involved with the King of Ferelden. 

Trevelyan had only met the King briefly twice, although she’d received missives and letters from him many times. She tried to imagine him and the stern human mage together, and couldn’t do it. Even as a King, Alistair was a bit inattentive and odd, and she couldn’t see Amell putting up with it as a recruit. 

“You look a bit like a lost kitten,” said Dorian by her shoulder. She was standing by the large fireplace where Varric normally held court--he was strangely absent--and had missed the door opening behind her from the tower stairs. She jolted to the side, letting him step in next to her. 

“I do not,” she protested. “Come to see the Hero of Ferelden too?”

“Oh no, that’s so popular these days it’d be rather gauche to admit that directly,” he said, grinning. “No no, I’m here to watch the circus. Everyone’s in a tizzy over the woman, I’m surprised there aren’t love songs being written in her honor.”

“She seems to be taking it well,” said Trevelyan, watching as a few other dignitaries crept up on Amell and Vivienne talking. They saw an opening and were taking it. The other two Wardens seemed to have given up on appearing to be protecting the Warden-Commander’s back and had become part of the crowd. Howe seemed to want nothing to do with anyone, standing by himself in a dark corner while Ganner focused on stealing the pre-dinner snacks off a table. 

Amell simply was impossible to ignore. She stood tall, spoke swiftly and decisively, and seemed to have everything well in hand.

Dorian sighed. 

“Look at them all. You’d think they’d never met a person who has saved the world before,” he said.

“I don’t count,” said Trevelyan. “I didn’t single-handedly kill an arch-demon and end a Blight.”

“Neither did she, if I recall the stories,” said Dorian. “Out in Tevinter the whole Ferelden Blight is something barely considered real. Some think it’s just a story blown all out of proportion, just a larger than average infestation. After all, it didn’t reach Tevinter, so it can’t be important.”

“Right. What do you think?” said Trevelyan, surprised to find her voice muted and a bit sulky.

“I think they’re idiots, you know that,” he said, brow arched as if to say: weren’t you paying attention? He gestured at them. “Right place, right time, right person, as they always say about history. That doesn’t mean she’s not impressive in her own way, just as you are. You’re both part of a rather unusual fraternity.”

“Sorority, wouldn’t it be?” said Trevelyan, and he snorted.

“I suppose so, forgive me. I do tend to focus more on masculine aesthetics….”

Trevelyan felt her mouth pull into a smile.

“Yes, yes, I know. Anyway, we are nowhere near the same. Look at her, she’s managing to make Vivienne have /fun/.”

“You really have no idea, don’t you,” said Dorian, glancing at her with lifted brows.

“What?” said Trevelyan.

“Oh, look, its Josephine trying to wrangle the children,” he said, gesturing to the head of the room. “I think she’ll need you, Inquisitor, slayer of dragons and defeater of Darkspawn.”

“Excuse you. Defeater of Weird Magister Darkspawn,” she said, and he was laughing at her as she made her way to the head of the long table that had been dragged into the main hall. 

She had to make a speech; Josephine had insisted earlier, and quietly Trevelyan had agreed. She’d spent enough time at her father’s side at estate dinners to know there was some amount of decorum and acknowledgement that was expected--deserved--with the woman who had saved Ferelden from a terrible fate at her table. She hadn’t thought too hard about it; she knew better than to try and prepare too much.

The speech felt rote and dry with the Commander-Warden watching her. No one really paid any attention to Trevelyan’s welcome, or talk about duty, or thanks to the Wardens and their cooperation and how it represented the possibilities of mutual allies working together. 

Leliana showed up near the end of it, materializing beside Cullen. As the next Divine, their Spymaster would be sitting at Trevelyan’s left hand, with Cullen and then Josephine in descending order. Warden Amell sat at Trevelyan’s right hand, with Howe and the Garren. It left Leliana sitting across from Warden-Commander Amell, and Trevelyan wondered why Josephine had let that stand. She knew full well something was going on there, but perhaps there were other matters that had decided it. 

As Trevelyan looked over the table, she spotted other faces; Varric, far away; Dorian, closer as a representative of Tevinter. Sera, shockingly, slinking in the door after the fancy food and soon to run back out again wrinkling her nose at all the propriety. Cassandra was next to the other Warden, Ganner. Vivienne sat not much further down.

Trevelyan felt very alone as she finished and there were cheers and toasts.The weight of Warden-Commander Amell’s eyes on her as she sat unnerved her as the courses were brought out, the wine and small beer poured, and conversation started in tentative whispers.

“I’ve had time to walk the grounds of Skyhold, Inquisitor,” said Amell. “I’m impressed that you established a Mage Tower.”

“Oh, that,” said Trevelyan, stupidly, and she shook herself. Come on, woman, you’ve been raised half your life to deal with politics. She could do better than that. She offered the Hero of Ferelden a wry smile, picking up her goblet to occupy her hands. 

“Yes, I thought it was important that we consolidate our research efforts and give our allies a home of their own, of a kind,” Trevelyan said. “It’s good for our troops. We have mages integrated, but not all of them are trained.”

“I did hear that you spear-headed an alliance with the mage rebellion,” said Amell. “I understand you didn’t have many options at the time.”

“Well, no, but it turned out to be a good decision,” Trevelyan said, wondering. She’d already gathered from the thing with Vivienne that Amell wasn’t a fan of Circles, and probably not a fan of Templars. What was she after here? 

“It’s a good example for the rest of Thedas,” said Amell, and Trevelyan hated the warm rush that filled her at the sign of approval. “Working together, not apart. I wanted to ask you if you would discuss with me what you learned about Corypheus. The Warden’s information is stupidly vague and sparse, and we’ve already learned how dangerous that is.”

Trevelyan nodded slowly, hand tight around the goblet. Maybe this was why Amell had come after all. “Of course, I'd be more than happy to talk to you about it. Maker, I wish there’d been more to go on before I was being blown up by a damn dragon.”

“I know the feeling,” said Amell, her mouth curling at one side, and Trevelyan flushed. 

“I guess you’d be an expert on that,” said Trevelyan. 

A darkness passed through the Warden-Commander’s face. Amell looked away from her, picking up a roll from the basket on the table. 

“You could say so,” said Amell, and Trevelyan kicked herself. Why would the woman want to be reminded of something like that? Trevelyan herself barely spoke to anyone about what had happened in that last desperate fight against Corypheus. Even now, the memory sat raw and bleeding in the back of her thoughts. 

“How about tomorrow morning?” Trevelyan said. “I usually end up restlessly pacing on the battlements. If you join me, we can talk all about Darkspawn Magisters that shouldn’t be alive, but are, and are making long speeches about how they’re going to take over the world.”

“They always make speeches,” said Amell, shaking her head. “I don’t understand. Why not just get on with it?”

“Right?” said Trevelyan. “I think its an ego thing. I mean, if you think you can destroy the world, you have to have an ego bigger than a Qunari battleship.”

“It does buy you time,” said Amell.

“I did that on purpose, once,” said Trevelyan.

“Really? And it worked?” said Amell, leaning on an elbow toward her.

“It actually worked,” said Trevelyan, knowing she glowed under Amell’s undivided attention. The next course came as they were talking, and she batted away someone’s hand from her half-eaten buttered bread. “He was so invested in killing me horribly to prove I was nothing, I got him talking long enough to bring a mountain down on his head.”

“Perhaps I should try that,” said Amell looking wistful, and Trevelyan laughed. 

“You kinda need special circumstances,” said Trevelyan. “He didn’t stay dead so I don’t know.”

“Somehow I keep running into that problem too,” said Amell. “Darkspawn have a certain reputation.”

“Maker’s breath, don’t I know it,” said Trevelyan, leaning back with a sigh.

Meanwhile, Leliana had been politely chatting up Howe and torturing Cullen. Howe was a stern man of few, sharp words, but Leliana had turned the topic to archery and Howe seemed deep in discussion about the value of ash versus oak in bows. Josephine had taken on Ganner and had managed to get him looking distantly excited about the idea of a Ferelden custard at the end of dinner.

Trevelyan found herself warming to Amell, talking shop about killing Darkspawn effectively as the dinner went on. It was a strangely safe, neutral topic when it came to talking to a Warden. Amell had a practical sort of personality at odds with the overwhelming way she took over a room and her mage background. It was refreshing, and Trevelyan found herself warming up to the woman by the time they’d gotten to the last course. Josephine had eventually cut in, trying to pull out information about Warden political interests and giving Trevelyan a chance to relax and actually eat her meal.

Amell seemed to handle Josephine just fine, even if she looked weary by the end of dinner.

Leliana and Amell didn’t say a single word to each other, distinctly not looking at the other’s face. Neither did Cullen, making a distinct effort to look like he wasn’t looking at Amell in a way much less elegant and well coordinated. 

In the after-dinner chaos, people began to coalesce around the Commander-Warden again when Trevelyan wasn’t looking. Now that people were full of wine and food, they were braver; more inclined to push on Amell’s good graces. The lines by Amell’s eyes were pinched, her mouth set. Impatience made Amell’s gestures sharp. Before Trevelyan could move to do anything, Josephine was suggesting that the Wardens deserved a good rest at the end of the day and herded them away from the curious onlookers.

Trevelyan, relieved, turned to tell Leliana that it looked like everything was going smoothly when she found the woman gone again. 

Frowning, she searched the room for her, but there was no sign of the future Divine.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warning: sounds of kissing??? Trevelyan's having a very had time with all these hot ladies, ok
> 
> Trevelyan overhears more than she wanted; the mark reminds her of another's absence; Cole comes to the rescue.

Between the two advisors, Cullen was the easier target. Trevelyan thought about accosting him in his office as she sat outside on the steps that looked over the yard in front of the tavern. She could see the burnt yellow glow of candles burning in his windows, but she felt too worn out to harass him. Once the Wardens had gone, her many guests and soldiers had seemed to recall that Trevelyan existed, and she’d been polite and gracious in Josephine’s absence until she wanted to throw chairs at them.

It was late now. The archer’s constellation stretched overhead in the thick night sky and the moon was high enough that she could pick out the guards on the walls and walking the grounds. Cold air helped refresh her, chasing away the cloying feeling of too many people talking all at once. She liked sitting here on the cold stone steps, feeling Skyhold settle into the evening around her where she could breathe and not worry about questions.

She wondered if this was how Amell felt. Warden-Commanders were in charge of things. Did she have to fight off courtiers and merchants looking for favor? Or was it just people in awe of her history and wanting the political shine of speaking to a Hero everyone agreed was amazing?

It was times like this she missed Solas. Just a twinge. The old Solas. Solas-before-he-disappeared. He had keen observations on political things and a refreshing disinterest in the importance people placed on the artificial. He’d surely have something scathing to say about Wardens. 

She dismissed him from her mind before she could get angry.

Getting up, she slipped back inside the main hall. The fires had been allowed to burn low in the large fireplaces, letting the chill that came through the doors behind her to linger on her back. The tables and chairs carved out of shadows trick her into seeing people in them, and the heavy tapestries blocked her view.

A person was crossing in front of her, steps quick and determined. A staff on their back. As they jerked open the door that wound up to the library, the ruddy colors of the fire still burning in the nearby fireplace caught on their face.

It was Warden-Commander Amell, and her mouth was set into a hard line and her shoulders stiff under the blue hauberk of the Warden Mages, all the chainmail and metal gone. Dressed down, she supposed, as far as a Warden ever allowed their armor and weapons to be separated from them.

Trevelyan waited a moment, holding her breath, but Amell went on and the echo of her footsteps went up the stairwell. Not sparing a moment to second guess herself, Trevelyan followed. Varric and Cullen’s musing down in the cellar came back to her, making her heart rush faster.

Why was Amell here? 

She didn’t have a reason to distrust her, but she didn’t have a reason to trust her skulking around Skyhold in the dead of night. Wardens kept secrets. They refused help on principle, clinging to ideals ages and ages old. They had pride and motives and duty. 

Amell’s footsteps took her up to the library, and then to the second staircase to the raven loft and Leliana’s base of operations. Where were the Inquisition spies? Usually there were more than one hanging around this time of night, but no one stopped her--or Amell--on the way. They were all gone.

Dread sunk to the bottom of her stomach. She regretted having only a dagger for a weapon at her belt. Not much use against an experienced war mage.

Trevelyan slowed her footsteps as she approached the raven loft landing, pressing against the wall into shadow. Leliana’s hard voice drifted down to her.

“--apologize now?”

“You know I would have told you if I could,” came back Amell’s tired voice. 

“Are you here to give me congratulations, then?” said Leliana, falsely bright. “I believe the appropriate gifts for becoming Divine are rosary beads and the hand of a dead saint.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of new boots with ruffles. Secret ones with silver bells to confuse your attending sisters,” said Amell. She sounded so soft and gentle. Trevelyan froze in place, brows rising. 

There was a long pause and some rustling. 

“You do know how to charm a girl,” said Leliana, her voice also tired now. “I thought you had things you needed to do.”

“Corypheus is important to figuring out the cure for the Calling,” said Amell. “But you know I’m not really here because of that, or Rainier.”

“Don’t say you’re here just for me,” said Leliana. “We both know that our duties are too weighty for just that. Don’t make me your excuse as a gesture.”

“I know you’re angry with me, Leliana, but I’m glad I can be here. That for once I can be here for you,” said Amell. Strain made her voice urgent, low. Sad. It gripped Trevelyan's insides and squeezed. Guilt snuck in like a cold draft. 

Leliana sigh, gusty, and footsteps pattered above Trevelyan’s head. “You know as well as I that I can’t hold it against you. That I don’t. I treasure what moments we can steal, even after all these years.”

“There can be more of them,” Amell said. “With the Weisshaupt Wardens in shambles and the Orlesian Warden faction split, I need to be here, and the freshest clues are with Corypheus and the Inquisition.”

“Have you managed anything? Gotten anywhere with your research?” asked Leliana, sharp. 

“I’ve a few leads and a few ideas. I think the key is where it all began, in Tevinter. But there are records in Weishaupt and the business with Corypheus, and I need to revisit my old command in Ferelden, of course.”

There was a pregnant pause. Rustling ravens settling in their sleep accompanied the groan of suspended cages swinging on chains. 

“I’m running out of time, but I think I’m close,” said Amell. Trevelyan strained to make out the words. 

“Running around to save the world as always, dear heart,” said Leliana gently. The anger had left her voice, leaving only weariness and old pride. “Perhaps once I’m Divine, I can find old records to help you.”

“It would be a good excuse to sneak in your back door,” said Amell. “A little reverse of the old days.”

“Remember when I would sneak into Vigil’s Keep and bring you flowers?” said Leliana. Trevelyan could hear the smile in her voice. “You kept telling me I could just walk in the front door, but where was the challenge in that?”

“It’s true enough. And then the one time you snuck up on me in my in the stables and seduced me in the loft, like we were naughty children hiding from our parents,” said Amell.

Leliana’s voice lowered, silky, smooth and reaching right into Trevelyan’s chest and leaving goosebumps down her arms.

“Oh, I remember. I especially remember the way I had to gag you to keep from yelling loud enough to bring the stable hands.”

Amell laughed, brilliant and breathless. 

“You wouldn’t let me try a silence spell,” said Amell.

“Perhaps you’re better at it, now?” said Leliana, and there was silence but nothing magical. Every other sound grew louder, the slight scuffle of feet against wood too close. Trevelyan didn’t realise she’d shoved her own hand over her mouth until she heard the wet sound of lips meeting, the smaller grunt and low thud of someone hitting something. 

Amell and Leliana were kissing.

They were way more than just war friends.

The wet sound as they pulled apart curled hot fingers into Trevelyan’s stomach and tugged. Her heart fluttered and a flush stole over her face. Cloying heat built against her skin. 

“There’s lots of things I’m good at,” murmured Amell, breathless, and Leliana’s laughter chased Trevelyan back down the stairs as she ran. 

Trying to swiftly sneak away without being caught was complicated by the flutter of her pulse in her throat and the tense shivers in her thighs. It had been way too long, apparently. She managed to avoid everyone on the way back down, but she took the wrong door on the landing and found herself in Solas’s incomplete room of murals. Only shadows lived here, and the looming black shapes of a tower and howling wolves made her heart skip. 

She was just on edge from over-hearing something she really, really shouldn’t have overheard. She wasn’t flighty by nature, nor a shrinking violet when it came to adult situations. It wasn’t that. She wasn’t actually afraid. 

Forcing her heart to slow, swallowing down the thick feeling in her throat, she slowly approached the one incomplete mural. It was just a wash of white and grey in the dark, but she touched it gingerly in order to ground herself. Closing her eyes, she evened out her breathing.

Leliana and Amell were in a long term relationship. It made sense. Leliana hotly defended the Wardens when they came up and had sharp opinions about the Blight. The Warden-Commander also wanted to cure the Calling. That made sense too. She was old enough to worry about it and she had something to live for. 

What would Trevelyan even do with a ticking time bomb in her life?

A burning pain wrenched in her left hand where she had placed it against the wall, making her gasp. She stumbled back from the mural in front of her, cradling her hand against her chest as green light spat and sparked from her hand. Green washed the room in a sickly glow, catching on the white paint and making it luminescent. The eyes of the wolves stared down at her, the flickering light making their teeth seem to gnash and formless bodies peer back and forth at her. 

“Andraste, please,” she managed, her back catching on the other wall. She shut her eyes, grit her teeth, and tried to focus through the pain while she gripped her left wrist tightly. Slowly, she forced her fingers open while hissing through the phantom needles stabbing into the delicate bones of her hand.

A few seconds, and the light faded, the pain changing from sharp to dull. She stared at her hand in the darkness. Amongst the grey shadows, the Mark had gone quiet in her palm. 

“Solas, damn you, why did you leave?” she asked the darkness, voice cracking.

“Sharp, too sharp, can’t breathe, it’s too bright, far too bright--where, where--Inquisitor?” drifted Cole’s voice. She blinked, turning to the far wall, and Cole was a ghostly wash of white standing in the doorway to the main hall. He’d forgotten his hat, limp hair luminescent in the faint light, while the rest of him soaked up all the colors to turn black. 

“Cole,” she said, all the breath leaving her in relief. “I’m--I’m fine, it’s okay.”

“Why do people always say they are okay when they are not?” he asked, and she thought she noticed a tone of annoyance in his normally calm voice. He crossed the room, boney hands catching her under the elbow of her normal arm to help her find her feet. She’d half fallen against the wall, and she leaned into him as he steadied her, too tired for pride.

“Because they’re worried about the other person,” she said. “They don’t want them to worry.”

“But I’m already worried,” said Cole. “That doesn’t help at all.”

“It makes me feel better, anyway.” Trevelyan crinkled her mouth a little towards a smile for him. He seemed even more solid lately, his emotions catching on new notes and his voice hiding new depths--annoyance, anger, disbelief, and dismay.

“I could feel it across the yard,” said Cole, answering an unasked question as he drew her out of the mural room. The chill of the main hall sunk into her legs and arms, but Cole took her over to the fireplace Varric preferred and she sank into the chair Varric always stole. It was the most comfortable in the hall despite being very low to the ground, forcing her to awkwardly arrange her legs to the side. 

“Really? I thought you weren’t that sensitive to the Fade anymore,” Trevelyan said, watching him build the fire. It was strange to watch him do such a common, human thing. The light flashed over him as new flames licked at wood, lending a ruddiness to his face and some color to his hair. 

“You’re very bright. I wonder why the mages can’t see it. Maybe they can and they just don’t say,” said Cole. “You called out to me. At least somewhere in your heart you did.”

Trevelyan stared at him, feeling heat crawl up her face. 

“I guess I did sort of wish someone was around to help me,” she muttered into her chest.

“I’m here,” he said, shrugging. A new wash of warm air enveloped her as the fire caught on the new wood and she sank back as the tension rushed out through her feet. Cole hovered by her shoulder, concern bending his brow so he looked even more like a sad dog. 

“I really am alright now. Thank you,” she said, giving him a smile. “You don’t need to babysit me.”

“You’re really not alright,” Cole said and she was sort of delighted at the scolding. “Varric says sometimes you have to tell someone they are not alright. But don’t they already know? But he said people lie to themselves. That’s true. Sometimes they need to be told things they already know.”

“Varric’s a smart guy.” She slumped down in her chair, running a hand over her hair. Her fingers caught on the tight bun at the back of her head, and she set about working her hair free. A mess. 

“Do you want to talk about not being alright?” ventured Cole gently. 

“What do you think about the Warden-Commander, Cole?” she asked instead.

“She’s a very strong mage,” he said, thoughtful. He hopped on to the end of the table next to her, hands clasped together between his knees. Still just a kid. “She’s all flint and hard edges but inside she’s soft and hurting. The voices speak all the time, but that’s alright. They aren’t loud. She’s used to them. And Leliana is here, that makes things alright. She’s tired but she burns, like you do. Well, different, but the same on the inside. That burning light makes people listen.”

Trevelyan moodily studied the flames, sorting through Cole’s verbal wandering. 

“She burns like I do,” she murmured.

“She’s scary to me,” said Cole. “But I don’t think she’d hurt me. I think. She could try.”

“She won’t try,” said Trevelyan sharply. “I won’t let her hurt you.”

“She’s a Warden, but she’s different from the others. She’s not scared,” said Cole, but she noticed some of the taught anxiety around him left when she’d defended him. “But I don’t really want to be close to her.”

“Understandable,” she said with a twitch to her mouth. Her hair a tumble around her shoulders, she wound the strand of ribbon around her fingers over and over to keep them busy. “Keep your distance from her if you’d prefer.”

“It pleases you to think I like you better,” said Cole.

Trevelyan opened, then shut, her mouth.

“I do,” said Cole. “I like you better.”

“.....I….. Thanks, Cole,” she said, the edge of her mouth twisting up. 

“Is this the same? Telling people what they already know, so they remember they know it?” asked Cole, leaning forward with his blue eyes intent on her face. 

“Probably. Still, thanks. I think I’ll head to bed now,” said Trevelyan. “What are you going to do?”

“I am going to sleep. It’s strange. My body is tired but my mind is not,” said Cole, contrite.

“That’s called insomnia,” she said, laughter bubbling in her chest. “For most people, anyway. I hear drinking some water and taking a walk help.”

“I’ll try water,” Cole said with an intent look on his face. “I forget sometimes.”

She waved goodnight to him, instructing him to remember to drink water at least twice a day, before dragging herself to her rooms. Weariness made her limbs heavy and drove any thoughts about romance right out of her mind. Better than a cold bucket of water, she thought dryly to herself, while she struggled out of the golden mail and changed into a clean shirt and little else. She fell face first into bed, the balcony windows cracked open to let in fresh air, before she went straight past thinking about the weird day or imaging Leliana seducing Amell, and right into sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trevelyan makes an important meeting; she flees an awkward situation; Dorian makes everything better; Sera suggests a plan

Trevelyan felt some pride at making it to the battlements before the crier announced seven o’clock the next morning. The sky was clear, the wind was blustery, and she leaned on the stone to study the sharp edges of the snow capped mountains. She had plenty of time to decide if she was going to admit to Amell she’d caught her and Leliana in an intimate moment the night before, and had decided not to mention it. Leliana, sure, but she didn’t know Amell and she’d had perfect right to follow a stranger skulking around her keep.

Leliana would laugh, probably. It didn’t ease the dread any.

“Good Morning, Inquisitor,” greeted Amell. The wind teased Amell’s hair into wisps and dragged the long line of her tunic to the side as she strode down the stone walkway, ignoring the startled reactions of two Inquisition soldiers that passed her. Trevelyan lifted her hand in greeting, straightening. 

“Good Morning. I hope you had a good night?” Trevelyan asked, schooling her expression and keeping her voice even.

“Better sleep than I’ve had in weeks,” Amell admitted, turning her face into the wind with the ghost of a smile, and Trevelyan bit her tongue.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Trevelyan said instead of ‘I think I know why’. “There’s a landing we can reach by the walls near the gardens. It’s an excellent place to talk without interruption.”

Amell’s face dropped into hard lines, but she nodded. Trevelyan lead the way, taking time to say good morning to the men and women on duty as they went. It didn’t take long to descend the short steps to the empty landing where she’d met Hawke for the first time. She could still remember the jolt of recognition as she’d found the woman, dressed in red and steel, waiting casually next to Varric and chatting as if she was simply going shopping at mid-week market.

Trevelyan marched to a box of supplies stashed close to the wall and plopped down on it, gesturing at the one across from her. Amell’s mouth pressed into a wane smile and she joined her.

Amell asked her about Corypheus and everything that Trevelyan had learned about his manipulation of the Calling. Her questions were sharp and specific. Trevelyan explained the best she could, outlining her journey into the Fade and confronting the engorged Fear demon.

“I’m sorry about Stroud,” Trevelyan said. “He sacrificed himself for us. He felt it was his duty, but I made that final call.”

The Warden-Commander nodded, lips pressed tight together, steely eyes focused on the rooftop behind Trevelyan’s shoulder. 

“He knew the risk. He was a fine Warden; he knew how to use his life to protect others,” said Amell. “We sign away our lives when we join. I think it’s right that a Warden put an end to it, instead of sacrificing someone else--you, or the Kirkwall Champion. Too much harm had been done.”

“I still feel like there should have been another way,” said Trevelyan softly. Her hands curled into fists on top of her knees and she studied them, jaw taught, and regrets swirling in her belly. “I don’t know if this really helps you. It wasn’t a real Calling.”

“It fills in some gaps,” said Amell. She paused, and then there was a shuffle of movement. A hand gripped her shoulder and Trevelyan’s head snapped up, finding Amell’s face only a foot away. This close, she could see age starting to draw delicate lines by the Hero of Fereldan’s mouth and eyes. The grey in woman’s hair had worked free, a few strands plastered across her forehead. A life of fighting and struggle left the texture of her skin rough. 

She looked an awful lot like the head Commander at Adamant, Clarel, and that made Trevelyan wondered how much of a weight this woman must carry.

“That’s what made it a good decision. There’s sometimes never a good answer, but we should always be searching for one that is better. We should regret losing a life, but be strong enough to know that sometimes it must be done,” said Amell firmly. “You’re a commander of one of the most important forces in Southern Thedas right now. The Wardens--and myself--are lucky to have you as an ally.”

Trevelyan’s mouth went dry as this strong, competent woman looked her in the eye and found her worthy. Anger and frustration filled her throat.

“I don’t know,” she found herself saying. “We defeated Corypheus and his dragon. I’ve killed dragons all over Thedas. Closed rifts--I’m still closing rifts. Orlesians still argue over land rights with Ferelden Bannorn, the Tevinter Imperium still thinks people without magic aren’t people, and the Qunari are plotting something or other. It doesn’t end.”

Amell smiled, quietly.

“Of course it doesn’t end. Life goes on,” she said, squeezing Trevelyan’s shoulder through the scale mail. “We go on. Your life doesn’t end when the bard’s stories do. You’ve plenty left to do, but at least it’s not desperately trying to bring down a man who doesn’t know how to die.”

“I suppose there’s that,” Trevelyan said, looking down. Amell’s intense stare had reached deep into her chest and shook it. Strong, sure, and unbearably handsome. Trevelyan’s pulse quickened, and she scolded herself. Amell was taken! By Leliana! So what if she liked strong older women!

“How do you do it?” asked Trevelyan softly. Amell let go of her. “Sure, life goes on, but everything’s different after saving the world. There’s this huge thing you have to do at all costs, and then you do it, and then there’s no big goal anymore.”

“Find the small things that make you happy and hold on,” Amell said plainly. 

Trevelyan studied her left hand. She flexed it slowly, thinking back to the flare of green light and Cole’s earnest, worried face the night before. Fear still sat in her stomach, along with an anxious edge, and everything was mixing together into a mess in her head. 

But she didn’t have time for that.

“There’s one other thing I thought might be of use to you,” said Trevelyan, forging on. She found Amell had drawn back, arms crossed and watching her. 

“It’s Head Enchanter Fiona,” said Trevelyan. “She said she used to be a Warden, but something happened, and she wasn’t anymore. I heard you want to cure the Calling. That might be a good person to ask.”

“I had heard she was a Warden,” said Amell, but her words were distracted and her attention was entirely on Trevelyan’s face. She lifted a hand, then seemed to decide against it, folding it back into her elbows. Her brows knit, she sighed. Trevelyan recognized the look on her face from her own mother, when she didn’t know what to do with a daughter who wanted to use the very big swords with the Templars who came to visit. 

“Yes,” said Trevelyan, annoyed. She wasn’t a child! She got to her feet, stretching her back with her hands on her hips. She twisted her upper body until she felt a satisfying pop in her lower back, and sighed, letting her arms drop. “I can give you a letter of introduction and we know where she is. I don’t think you want to wait two weeks until she’s due for a visit in Skyhold.”

“We can’t,” said Amell, lips pursed. “But thank you for the help. I want to take a look through your libraries. I’ve heard that your Tevinter has collected some rare texts.”

“Dorian’s a great help,” Trevelyan said, emphasising his name hard. “I’m sure he’d be delighted to complain about the lack of proper reference books with someone else.”

“He sounds interesting,” said Amell, warily, and Trevelyan laughed at the dismay on the woman’s face. 

“He is. I’ll introduce you,” said Trevelyan, and they headed back up to the battlements. Trevelyan liked to walk them instead of through the courtyard. She always did when she wanted to get back to the main keep from the bailey, but she had forgotten one important thing.

“Sorry Cullen,” she called as she opened his office door, intending to take the short cut through his claimed tower to the keep. “I just need to get into the main keep, just passing through.”

“That’s quite alright, Inquisitor, you know I always appreciate seeing y--” Cullen started, casually looking up from the reports he was reviewing. His eyes widened and the words died as he caught sight of the Warden-Commander over her shoulder and shot to his feet, his knees bumping the heavy desk on the way. 

“I didn’t realize you had company,” he said, dragging his eyes away from Amell to focus on the Inquisitor's face with no small amount of trapped betrayal. 

Oh, right.

Trevelyan weakly smiled at him, hoping he’d read the apology in it, as she stepped out of the way and the Warden-Commander came in behind her. Curiosity had softened the lines of Amell’s face, and the woman drifted towards Cullen, looking at him as if trying to figure out a puzzle. 

“I thought I had heard the name Cullen before, but I wasn’t sure,” said Amell, wonderingly. She stopped a few feet from him, back straight, head lifted high, as she looked at him from head to foot and back. Cullen stood at attention, shoulders back and one hand gripped the edge of his desk tightly. He set his jaw and set his feet, as if bracing against an attack.

“Commander Cullen Rutherford of the Inquisition, at your service,” he said, jaw set but voice a bit weak. .

“It really is you, isn’t it,” said Amell, going still with her eyes wide. Trevelyan’s stomach dropped to her feet at the way Cullen stared at her, eyes filled with her, and then took in a shivering breath.

They’d forgotten about her entirely.

“Yes. I served at the Redcliffe Circle,” Cullen admitted. 

“I remember you,” said Amell, her voice gone that soft and gentle way it had when she’d spoken so nicely to Leliana. Before kissing her. Trevelyan’s brain wouldn’t let her forget that part, or the sound, and at the memory her skin prickled and her knees grew weaker.

“I--I didn’t know if you would,” said Cullen. “I didn’t want to remind you if you’d chosen to forget.”

“It’s been a long time, Ser Cullen, but I don’t think I am about to forget. You’re very hard to forget,” said Amell, the edge of her mouth curling upward with secrets Trevelyan should not and would never know. Cullen flushed, letting go of his desk and looking away from her to the mess of reports he’d been reading.

“It was a bad time,” he said, voice dropping.

“And you were the best of them,” said Amell, stepping forward to gently touch his arm. Cullen didn’t flinch, but he did start. 

“Look at you,” Amell said, smiling tiredly. “From Lieutenant Templar to Commander of the Inquisition Army, rebel against the Templar Order. I’d wondered if the rumors were true. I’m glad they are.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Cullen said, lost. Poor man, he was entirely out of his depth. Trevelyan found it sort of adorable, but distress had her insides in knots. Why in the world was she so upset? The urge to run crept up her legs, making her heart beat fast. 

“I’m more surprised you want anything to do with me, after what happened,” said Amell, hand dropping from his shoulder.

“What? Of course not, I don’t blame you,” he said in rushed alarm. He lifted a hand as if to reassure her somehow, but drew it back. “I don’t blame every mage for it, of course I don’t blame you, you put an end to it. You were more noble than anyone else in the Maker abandoned place.”

Trevelyan looked at the far door and felt it calling to her. She wanted to leave, she felt ill and had a feeling it was for very stupid reasons. Childish reasons that had no business bothering the Inquisitor. 

“That’s certainly not true, but I’m glad you think it,” said Amell, shaking her head. “It’s good to see you after all this time. Makes me have faith that Thedas has some decent people left in it after all. Before I leave, we should have a drink to put old ghosts to rest. We’re both different people than we were.”

“I think I might like that,” said Cullen gently with a wry smile and yeah, no, Trevelyan was leaving. She’d never been a quiet person, she was more of a ‘carry a big stick and hit people’ person, but neither of them were paying her any attention. She forced her legs to move and fled, like a scared child, out the door without saying anything. The adult thing would have been to acknowledge the situation, to tell them she’d leave them some privacy and wait in the library, and leave like a sane person.

Instead she slipped out the door and walked very, very quickly--she refused to run--across the bridge and inside, stomping up the stairs to the library. Soldiers fled at the sight of her, mages suddenly found books very interesting, and she found herself throwing herself into a chair across from Dorian like a petulant child.

Dorian, sitting back with his legs crossed, a book in one hand and a glass of wine in the other, looked over at her with lifted brows and a confused smile.

“My, what an honor, my dear Inquisitor. What has you coming to my parlor? I’d make a joke about parlors and spiders, but I dislike the allusion that I am anything but a gentleman. I’d ask first before tying anyone up,” said Dorian.

“Nothing,” she said quickly, twisting around to grab a book off the pile next to him. She turned it over in her hands and ran her fingers over the embossed letters. 

Dorian studied her and she set her jaw, intent on the book. She opened it and found it was written in old, old Orlesian. Some of the tightly penned words made sense to her, distant lessons on irregular verbs drifting back to her from a noble child’s upbringing. Stubborn, she started trying to piece them out.

“I didn’t know you were interested in the history of Spindleweed uses through the ages,” said Dorian after a few minutes of watching her struggle, amused. “Let alone that you could read Orlesian from three hundred years ago. You are full of hidden mysteries.”

“I can read some of it,” she said. “See, here, whoever wrote this is talking about pounding the leaves into a paste before added an…….extract of cats?”

“Let me see.” Dorian commanded her archly, setting his own book aside and tugging on hers until she had turned it around for him to see.

He snorted. “That’s an extract of nekofilias, otherwise known as ‘cat weed’.”

“I wasn’t far off,” she said, jerking the book back into her lap. “Warden-Commander Amell wants to look at the library. I thought she might talk to you about it.”

“I’m not a librarian, that’s a horribly dusty and decidedly boring job. But I am quite intelligent and charming. I hope you didn’t just mistake me for the dour woman who dusts the shelves here,” said Dorian.

“No. I think the two of you can talk about magic things. She’s trying to solve a Warden problem, and you’re good at weird magic problems,” she said.

One side of Dorian’s moustache twitched upwards, along with the hint of a lopsided smile. 

“Why, Trevelyan, I’m honored,” he said. “I knew I kept you around for a reason. Weird magic problems. I suppose that would be one way to put it. Was that actually a compliment? I’m taking it as a compliment.”

She kicked his foot and he looked wounded.

“It’s a compliment, stop fishing,” she said, but her nerves settled and she could breathe again. Dorian had that effect on her. He was sort of like a daft older brother with a lot more style. Or younger brother, it changed depending on her mood. 

“Ah, speak of the devil,” said Dorian, looking towards the hall, and Trevelyan looked up to see Amell standing there looking perplexed. The woman looked between the two of them--Trevelyan, wearing gold and silver, sitting in a dusty old chair with floral print with an old book in her hands, and Dorian, an outlandish landscape of leather and bright silver fastenings drinking wine, sitting in a velvet chair with an arched back--and seemed to give up. Amell sighed and turned to Trevelyan, tapping the bookcase beside her.

“I’m sorry for delaying you,” said Amell stiffly, and Trevelyan resisted the urge to squirm and apologize. Instead she looked away, putting the book down and got to her feet. She gathered her composure and forced herself to look Amell in the eye with a friendly smile.

“I thought you and the Commander needed a moment alone,” said Trevelyan. “May I introduce you to Dorian Pavus, Tevinter Liaison and Mage.”

“And Mage, she says,” said Dorian, looking skyward as if begging the Maker for aid as he pushed to his feet. “Only Inquisitor Trevelyan would look at someone who carries a great big stick around and can put things on fire, and think Mage would be the least important thing to mention.”

“I have the impression Inquisitor Trevelyan is unique in many things,” said Amell diplomatically, and Trevelyan coughed. She felt oddly like she was listening to her mom talking to a stranger about her.

“Indeed she’s unique in many ways,” said Dorian, looking at her with bright eyes and deviousness in his smile. “Our dear Inquisitor. We’d never have gotten this far without her. Did you know that she mutters in her sleep about nobles she’s annoyed at when we camp in the field?”

“I’ll leave you to it, then. If you need me, I should be in the great hall or the practice yard,” Trevelyan said, deciding she’d rather be absent if Dorian was going to tell embarrassing stories about her to a stranger. 

“Thank you, Inquisitor,” said Amell, but her gaze was searching and Trevelyan refused to meet it. She slipped back out of the library, heading down the stairs, before the woman could draw any conclusions or ask any invasive questions. Behind her, she could hear their voices, Dorian’s brighter tenor and Amell’s wary alto, but they sounded in harmony so she didn’t much worry.

They were two people who had delved into the strangest side of magic and survived. That alone would help them get along.

She’d intended to go into the practice yard to make Cassandra practice with her, but Cassandra wasn’t there. Trevelyan wandered into the inn and wondered where all of her friends had disappeared. Even the Iron Bull wasn’t there, so she ignored the bar chatter and walked to the second floor.

She knocked on Sera’s door.

“If you’re a messenger from great miss knows-it-all and got-a-stick-up-my-arse, I ain’t here,” came Sera’s voice from the other side. Trevelyan considered the wooden door, scarred from thrown daggers and arrows, and leaned her shoulder against it without opening it.

“What if I’m some snooty Inquisitorialness that’s got no messages and has no idea what you’re talking about?” Trevelyan shouted through the door.

Silence.

Then, the door yanked open, and Trevelyan nearly tumbled into Sera’s alcove. She ran into Sera first, heads smacking hard into each other, and Trevelyan yelped. Sara shouted, and the two of them took a moment of reeling before they could find their feet.

“What’s that for?” said Sara, scowling and dropping her hand from her forehead. “Why’d you got and butt me in the head? You thinkin’ of trying out Bull’s thing?”

“You opened the door I was leaning on,” Trevelyan managed, rubbing at the promise of a bruise on her temple with one eye shut. “Ow. Your head is hard. Sorry, I didn’t think.”

“That’s right, sorry, better be proper sorry for smacking me in the head,” said Sera, but she was grinning a bit. “Now I can tell ‘em, the Inquisitor is a dumb -- dumb person who leans on doors and smacked herself in the head.”

“You smacked me in the head,” grumbled Trevelyan, but she shuffled past the pile of trinkets next to the door to flop down on the window seat. At this time of day, the sun only barely caught the alcove windows, leaving it in cool shadows. One sunbeam had caught the edge of the window, filtering inside to make a pile of baubles glitter with bright colors. Sera looked as she always did, torn shirt and mustard stains and smirking as she looked Trevelyan over.

“You look like shit,” Sera announced.

“Yeah, I hit my head on you,” said Trevelyan, hand dropping into her lap.

“Naw, not just that. That’s you stumbling around all woozy,” said Sera. She kicked the door shut and dropped to sit in the opposite corner of the window seat. She stuck her knees out, the edge of her tunic riding up her yellow-plaid thighs, and leaned back against the glass.

“Then what is it?” asked Trevelyan, sighing.

“You look all bent out of shape. Like you want to hit things until they stop moving and then it’s just squish, squish, squish,” said Sera, demonstrating by smacking her hand into her palm over and over and then grinding her knuckles down.

“Maybe. Cassandra isn’t around or I’d be hitting her,” said Trevelyan.

“Hah, yeah, I’d hit that. If she wouldn’t throw me out a window,” said Sera, grinning. “Oo, think of the muscles. I’d climb her like a tree. Bet she’d be a prude, though. Oh no, can’t do this, can’t do that, ain’t proper and boring enough.”

Conversations with Sera always got away from her. Trevelyan purpled, groaned, and dragged a hand down her face. This wasn’t the time to think about Cassandra’s muscles or the sweat on her brow or the funny way her mouth twitched at one corner when Trevelyan managed to make a joke, or the exact dry tone of Cassandra’s voice when she was making her own jokes.

“I knew you’d agree with me,” said Sera. “Come on, buck up. Just because you ain’t getting boned doesn’t mean it's the end of the world. Kinda isn’t any fun, though, but you seem to have trouble with fun.”

“I don’t have--I don’t agree--Sera, I just want to hit things with a very big sword. And not the euphemistic kind,” Trevelyan muttered. 

“Whose saying it’s euphe-whatsit? Don’t gotta start using big words just because you’re all upset,” said Sera. 

“I’m not upset,” ground out Trevelyan. “Can’t we just sit on the roof--Maker, I can’t do that, Josephine would kill me if the Wardens saw me.”

“See? No fun. Augh, I hate her,” said Sera, sinking down and kicking a bucket that was sitting in the room. It was filled with flowers, arrows, and some bottles filled with vicious looking liquid. It rattled. 

“What’d Josephine do?” asked Trevelyan, focusing back on Sera’s face. The woman scowled, her shoulders hunched and head down.

“Caught me sneaking to the Warden’s rooms with a bucket and soapy water. Classic, right? Wardens not so scary when they’re covered in suds. Clean up your act, they say, well, soap and water is clean enough,” said Sera.

“You tried to prank the Wardens,” said Trevelyan slowly.

“Well, yeah. They’re gonna drag off big ol’ Blacky Wally. Gotta make sure they’re worth it. Decent enough, you know. Not gonna let just anyone recruit him,” said Sera. “And everyone’s acting so weirdy about them. Can’t be scared of someone sopping wet. I don’t get it. This is what Blackwall’s said he wants for like, ever, and now he’s sulking in the barn and hides when they walk around.”

Trevelyan smiled quietly. 

“Thanks, Sera. I appreciate it, but I don’t think it would help. One of them’s the Hero of Ferelden, you know, I thought you’d like her,” said Trevelyan.

“Hah, what’d she do? Stabbed a big dragon until it’s dead. I’ve done that. Shot ‘em in the eye once, even. Killed five dragons,” Sera said. “Thinking about challenging the broody one to an archery contest, all official like. Then put cockroaches in his pants and see if he can still shoot a bow.”

“I think the person who needs to decide what to do is Blackwall,” said Trevelyan. “Even though watching an archery contest would be kind of interesting. You don’t think she’s impressive at all?”

“Hah, yeah it would. I’d beat the pants off that guy,” Sera said. She turned her head, the light catching across her nose and eyes but leaving her cheek and throat in shadow. It made it impossible to read her face, blinding as it was, and all Trevelyan could see was the edge of her mouth pulling down to a scowl.

“What’s so good about her. Bunch of people still died. Guess more would’ve died, but she wasn’t the only one out there,” said Sera. “Don’t even remember it really. She wasn’t around when we needed her s’all I know. Fuck, I don’t want to talk about it. You really think an archery contest’d be fun?”

“Yeah, if you could talk him into it. I’m not going to do it for you,” said Trevelyan, an ache in her chest for tiny Sera watching too many people die horribly. She knew better than to express it. 

“I don’t need you to do anything for me,” Sera said, rolling her eyes. “I bet moving targets would be more fun. Maybe I’ll catch pigeons and tie small targets around their necks. We got any good nets anywhere?”

“You’d have to ask the requisitions master,” Trevelyan said mildly. The more people Sera had to go through, the less likely her attention span would let her actually go through with the challenge idea. 

“You should challenge that Warden lady to a duel. Make sure she’s up to snuff,” said Sera, leaning across the seat to prod Trevelyan’s calf.

Trevelyan pulled her leg out of range and Sera huffed. 

“I think she’s already up to snuff,” said Trevelyan, laughing, the sound weaker than usual and a little distant even in her own ears. “Alright, alright. I’m sure someone’s looking for me. Just--I think Blackwall might appreciate a friend nearby, right now.”

“Yer his friend, you go over there,” said Sera, giving her a side-eye. “I’m going to bring him beer. Lots and lots of beer. He’s always better with the beer, but I can’t drag him into the tavern these days.”

A spear went through Trevelyan’s heart. Her smile faltered, grew tense, and the ache seemed to go down to her bones.

“I should,” she said, slipping off the seat and heading out of the room. Sera groaned.

“You keep sounding like that, and I really am going to dump water on their heads!” Sera shouted, and kicked the door shut behind her.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trevelyan gets Varric out of a tight spot; things get out of hand; a contest is held and secrets are shared; Sera does what she does best
> 
> aka well this archery thing sure did get away from me but hell if it wasn't fun to write

Wardens didn’t mean the Inquisitor did not have work to do. She found Josephine to discuss renewing trade agreements and potential expansion of the Inquisition’s protections of some roadways that were still in disrepair. Reports of a few straggling rifts meant preparing an outing further east into Ferelden than she normally traveled, and that meant sending messages to the bannorn who owned those lands. 

Trevelyan debated telling Josephine about Leliana and the Warden-Commander for two hours, the indecision making her terse and distracted, and Josephine chased her out after a hurried lunch. Dorian and Warden-Commander Amell seemed to be holding court at the table Varric normally claimed, books spread out between them and their heads bent over notes. She watched them for a moment, Dorian making a point by jabbing a coal pencil at a diagram he’d drawn and Amell shaking her head and gesturing to one of the books. The light falling into the hall through the open main doors cut across the Warden, pulling her out of the background of the familiar hall and leaving all else dark. The silver links of her mail gleamed. Dorian was left in shadow, but she could see the edge of an amused smile.

Trevelyan put aside thoughts of interrupting and went out into the yard to search for a missing dwarf.

Skyhold was not big enough to avoid someone easily. She didn’t want to go near the barn and she didn’t want to be in the hall, nor did she want to be on the battlements, so she found herself back in the main yard. Exhaling slowly in annoyance at herself as she skulked around her own damn home, a flicker of gold caught the corner of her eye, and Varric’s voice drifted to her.

“I told you, I don’t know where he is!”

Trevelyan broke into a jog, coming around the armory to find Varric facing down one of the other Wardens, Warden Howe. A severe man with a long nose with a badly healed break, he could have been roguishly handsome if he’d remembered to smile and if his hair was kept more neatly.

Warden Howe had his arms crossed, mouth pressed into a thin line as he looked down at Varric. 

“I know you were friends with him,” said Howe. “He disappeared after the Chantry. Where is he?”

“I said, I don’t know, and frankly, I don’t want to know,” said Varric, waving a broad hand between them while he shook his head. “Blondie’s the last person anyone needs to think about. He’s not causing any more trouble, that’s what matters.”

“How do I keep finding you in this situation?” wondered Trevelyan aloud, strolling up to them with her thumbs in her belt and gaze intent on Warden Howe’s face. Howe had the grace to look at her, ready to snap at someone, and then recognition jolted through him that she was important. He lowered his arms and stepped back, mouth shut.

Varric sent her a thankful look, mouthed ‘Good timing,’ before he changed tactics from maligned victim to annoyed merchant. He threw up his hands.

“I don’t know, Inquisitor, but its always about things I don’t know,” said Varric. “I’m just popular, I guess. I could do without the awkward fans, though.”

“Inquisitor,” said Howe, his voice grave. “I was simply asking this merchant some questions about Warden business.”

“Warden business, Andraste’s foot,” said Varric. “You just want to track him down for the same reason everyone else does. And you know what I say to everyone else? I don’t know. You’d think you’d get the idea from the book.”

“Hold on a minute, who are we talking about?” said Trevelyan. “Right now you both are speaking in tongues.”

“Warden Anders,” said Howe. “The man who destroyed the Kirkwall Chantry.”

“Oh, right. Anders,” said Trevelyan, reaching back in her memory to when she’d devoured Tale of the Champion three times in three weeks. “If Varric says he doesn’t know where he is, he doesn’t know. I can’t help you with that. I think if anyone would have found out, it’s Seeker Cassandra.”

“Yeah she’s a lot more…. Creative about her questions,” Varric said, eyeing Howe.

“Varric, I spent five minutes down in the deep roads with you and Hawke, and even I know better than to think you don’t have an idea,” said Howe. 

“Wait, what?” said Trevelyan. “What do you mean? Wait--you’re the Warden that was down in the deep roads in Tale of the Champion?”

“Yes?” said Howe. He frowned. “Varric, you wrote about me?”

“And I was nice about it, too,” said Varric. “Changed your name and definitely made you more tragic fallen prince type. People love that, wildly successful for Choir Boy before he turned into an ass. A bigger one anyway. I can’t believe you haven’t read that yet.”

“I don’t really have time to read someone’s made up stories,” said Howe.

“Hey, some of it’s true! Sort of,” protested Varric. 

“It doesn’t matter,” said Trevelyan, grasping vaguely for control of the conversation. “Varric doesn’t know. Right, Varric?”

“Right,” he said.

“There you go,” said Trevelyan, turning back to Howe who was giving Varric a narrow, measuring stare. “I’m sorry, but that’s as much as anyone knows. Warden Howe, is there some /other/ way I could possibly help you that doesn’t involved harassing one of the Inquisition’s staunchest allies?”

“I’m one of your staunchest allies? Awe, Inquisitor, I didn’t know you cared,” said Varric, but there was a slight stutter underneath his words--she’d actually surprised him. She smiled, eyes alight as she faced down Warden Howe.

Howe seemed to have lost his words for a moment, the stern edge to him gone. He gestured vaguely.

“I’m just here to help the Warden-Commander,” Howe managed. “We’ve known each other a long time.”

“Everyone seems to know her but me,” Trevelyan muttered.

“Is that what’s bothering you?” said Varric, and she avoided his gaze.

“Well, Howe, I can at least give you some advice,” she said. “If you see an elven woman with badly cut blonde hair and a bow, walk the other way.”

“Why is that?” asked Howe, eyes narrowed.

“Because she wants to have an archery contest with you. Well, unless you want to have the most oddball archery contest of your life with her,” amended Trevelyan.

“Now that I want to see,” said Varric, suddenly canny.

“Oh no,” said Trevelyan. “I am not going to be held accountable for Sera going on rampage because you thought it’d be funny.”

“A contest? I wouldn’t mind a test of skill,” said Howe, with an unexpected spark of mischief in his eye. He lifted his chin slightly with pride. “If your Sera would like to lose, I’d oblige her. How about this, dwarf, we can make a wager. I recall you are fond of them. If I win, then you tell me what you know about Ander’s last known location. If I lose, I drop it.”

“Now, what do I get out of it?” said Varric. “No, no, if you lose, I get to ask you a favor.”

“Nothing that violates my duties as a Warden,” Howe warned.

“Of course not! Of course not,” said Varric, grinning broadly. “I’ll even have an impartial third party set up the targets.”

“We’re not going to have an archery contest in the middle of Skyhold while Blackwall is waiting to leave,” said Trevelyan, stomach sinking.

“What better way to send off the old liar?” said Varric, hands spread. “Better than sitting here being upset about it. It’d be a great way to increase morale! And I bet he will get a kick out of it. Nathaniel here is a pretty good shot, so it’ll be a decent fight, but my money’s on Buttercup.”

Trevelyan knew when she’d been beaten. She sighed; this felt, somehow, inevitable. She ran a hand over her hair, but it was nice to see the dour Warden with something resembling a dry look on his face instead of the flat stern one. 

“Alright, alright. It's not going to delay anything, I guess. If you want to have an archery contest, go ahead. This afternoon, before dinner, and no later,” she said, hands on her hips as she gave Varric a hard look. He turned innocent eyes on her, crossing two fingers together and laying them on his heart. 

“Upon my honor as a terrible, lying merchant,” Varric promised with delight. Warden Howe shook his head. 

“Go on. Go!” She shooed them with both hands. “I’m not telling Sera, you are. I’m not involved in this.”

“But Inquisitor! We need a proper official to see over any sort of gambling event,” said Varric, and even for him, it was laying in on thick.

“Fine! I’ll do--whatever that is,” she said, putting a hand over her eyes so she could stop looking at him and regretting it. She flicked her fingers at him. “Just go.”

“You got it, your Inquisitorialness,” Varric promised. She kept her hands over her eyes as he and Howe walked away, footsteps an odd pair of rhythms. “Now, Howe, what do you think about targets being held by some beautiful men and women…..”

Trevelyan refused to even think about what she’d just done. The mid-day sun was getting hot on her hair, despite the chill of the wind, so she sighed and stomped on to find somewhere else to hide. Not hide. Do work, that’s right. Do work and pretend she wasn’t seeing all the things Varric was doing that she should stop.

The only safe place left was her rooms. 

She left the balcony doors open to listen to the distant sounds of chaos down in the yard. Up this high, the winds that howled down off the mountains usually tore most noise to shreds, but it had turned mild as the day shifted into afternoon. At one point, Cullen’s annoyed tenor drifted up to her and she smirked at her desk while she wrote proper, formal messages. Her tutor from childhood would have been proud of the way she constructed the proper salutations to Antivan merchant princes and Tevinter soporati community leaders. 

Eventually she gave it up and walked out on the side of her balcony closest to the yard, leaning her elbows against the stone balustrade and content knowing no one could see her. Below, activity had taken over what little of the yard she could see. She thought Cullen and Cassandra were both out there, and it occurred to her suddenly that maybe everyone needed a distraction. They would complain and moan, and Josephine would say something about decorum, but inside they’d all gotten too worked up and tense from the visit. The reason for the visit. The renewing of memories about Blackwall and Thom Rainier, and standing inside a bailey staring at the man she thought she knew behind bars.

Sera had picked up on it already; it was the sort of thing that drove her to pranking sprees.

People needed to relax and have fun, especially Wardens who had saved the world, and maybe people would be able to treat Amell more like a person and less like a thing.

Trevelyan paused a moment, mouth thinning into a tight line.

Or maybe that was just her, projecting.

She turned with the sound of someone knocking on her door from inside, and went to see if someone had come to tell her all had been made ready. On the other side of the door, one of Cullen’s favorite runners, Mathilda, stood slightly hunched and out of breath, her hair in disarray and her cheeks red from running up the stairs. 

“Inquisitor, your presence has been requested by, uh, Master Varric?” Mathilda said.

“Are you not sure who asked you to come get me?” said Trevelyan, not quite able to stop herself.

“Well, he’s the one who sent me, but I wasn’t going to go running off bothering you but the Commander said to come get you,” said Mathilda dryly, and Trevelyan remembered why she was Cullen’s favourite messenger. Cullen sometimes accidentally or not so accidentally teased them with his dry humor.

Trevelyan felt a smile steal over her face. 

“I’m coming,” she said, closing the door behind her and gesturing for Mathilda to proceed her down the stairs. “How’s the arrangements for this archery contest I absolutely don’t know anything about going?”

“It’s all set,” said Mathilda, casting her one, bemused look over her shoulder before starting down the stairs. “Looks like Master Varric’s roped in half of Skyhold into it. Ambassador threw a f--excuse me, had some strong words about it, but I think she ended up liking the idea. Warden-Commander seems pleased enough about it.”

“That’s good, thank you Mathilda,” Trevelyan said warmly.

“I think the rest is best if you see it for yourself, Inquisitor,” said Mathilda. Trevelyan’s brows went up high but she kept her stride even, refusing to rush. 

Downstairs, she found the tables for the hall were pushed up against the walls and filled with hastily prepared foods suited for people picking slowly at them. Apples cut into slices, orange pieces ready to be peeled, and vegetables that needed no cooking. A cask of ale had been rolled in, and one of the veteran soldiers had claimed control of it. People were drinking and chatting with an excitement that matched the Hero of Ferelden’s appearance, but it was lighter. Easier. A contest with gambling didn’t bring up bad memories or divisive political opinions--at least none worse than the people trying to defend their chosen winner.

Mathilda slipped through the crowd with practiced ‘Excuse me Ser’s and ‘Beg your pardon, M’lord’s, and the Inquisitor hurried to take advantage of the break in the crowd. Fine lords and ladies in Orlesian masks murmured excitedly with Ferelden bannorn in stiff wool gowns, while dirt-stained Inquisition scouts leaned over to make bets with Rebellion mages in homespun robes. For a moment, Trevelyan breathed in deep and smiled, irrationally proud of the mixing chaos. Like nowhere else in Thedas, people came together in Skyhold.

The bright sun outside blinded her as she pushed through the door, forcing her to pause on the stone landing on the other side. She practiced looking somber and serious, staring at nothing, while her eyes adjusted. 

For master archers such as their Sera, the length of the yard in front of the tavern would never do. Instead, more tables had been dragged out from inside the tavern for patrons to enjoy drinks and the open air, while Varric held court in the middle of a pushing, excitable knot of people of all types. They swirled around him like shifting tides around a stone in the center. He looked in fine spirits, standing on a box behind a ragged red wood table that had an old Inquisition tabard laid over it and avidly talking to a slender elf soldier handing over one silver coin. Varric plucked it from his hand, bent over the volume open in front of him to jot down something, and then added it to the pile growing inside an intimidating looking box with iron hinges.

Trevelyan descended the stairway, catching attention from the crowd. Whispers attended her as she pushed through to Varric’s table, taking the place of the last betting man who hurried off. 

“Is this the gambling you were saying needed my good graces?” said Trevelyan, lifting both of her brows with her hands behind her back. Sometimes she liked pretending to be a proper Marcher lord. 

“Inquisitor! You’re just in time, I think we’re ready to start,” said Varric, throwing her a grin. He leaned forward, voice low. “Would you like to place a bet on who you favor to win?”

Trevelyan could feel the way the surrounding company leaned in. Apparently the Inquisitor’s opinion still meant something, and she played to Varric’s drama, humming to herself as she considered the sky and thought about it. 

“I think that would be an unfair advantage, don’t you think?” she said, grinning as a few groans of disappointment echoed around her. “I can’t be seen favoring one combatant against the other.”

“Very true, Inquisitor, I wouldn’t dream of swaying the odds,” said Varric, rocking back on his heels. He lifted his arms, voice booming. “Last bets! Calling all last bets! Inquisitor is here, we can begin soon!”

Trevelyan wisely escaped before she could be trapped. Extricating herself from the chaos, she left the yard and walked down to the main gate. It was open and people were still filtering in from the larger Inquisition camps in the valley. She was certain someone had informed the larger bulk of the army, and it was astonishing how much had been done in so little time. 

Running from the gate to the barn, someone had used stakes and bright ribbons to mark off a long track of earth. Piles of hay were set at intervals, and the first set of targets were low to the ground. Others had been placed very high on stakes, and there were more pieces of equipment set aside for some sort of….idea that Trevelyan didn’t want to try to contemplate too hard. The Merchants had shifted their stalls, hawking wares and handing out strips of fabric to the crowd--red for Sera, blue for Howe.

It had all escalated rather quickly.

Bemused, she stood to the side and watched the crowds setting into fighting the passive aggressive games for the best seats, while the nobler bloods complained about being forced to stand. The Iron Bull and the Chargers seemed to have taken up the role as guards for the competition grounds, incidentally claiming some of the best spots, although Bull seemed to mostly be enjoying sitting on the extra straw bales and yelling out suggestions. Cullen was ordering some soldiers to bring in extra arrows, Cassandra was yelling at people to move and stop blocking important doorways, and Josephine was amongst their more important guests holding court and looking flushed and excited despite herself.

That included the Wardens. Warden-Commander Amell looked stern, but the edge of her mouth was twitching. Lelianna stood with her, a smile on her lips, and while Trevelyan watched Amell leaned in close to the future Divine. Lelianna whispered in her ear; both women laughed, looking only at each other. Warden Garren clearly felt out of place, stiff and studying the targets. 

Poor man, Trevelyan though, lips quirking upwards. 

Trevelyan ducked around people crowding on the steps with mugs of ale in their hands, and pushed her way to Josephine. The Ambassador beamed upon spotting her, taking Trevelyan’s elbow and tugging her close. Trevelyan ignored the way her heart stuttered as Josephine leaned in to her. She could feel Josephine’s lips against her ear, light and ticklish, and she had to fight down a flush and try to pay attention. 

“I’d say I’ll get you back for this, but this turned out to be a perfect idea. Now, you are going to open the competition with a speech,” said Josephine, her voice light and airy and oh, Maker. Josephine’s fingers dug into her arm. “There are three judges, Cullen, Scout Harding, and Warden Garren. You are going to stand there, make a very nice speech, and then stand with me here and handle our guests.”

Trevelyan nodded, knowing that sometimes she just needed to follow Josephine’s directions and this was one of those times.

Josephine leaned away, smile bright and gaze glittering, and patted the Inquisitor’s arm before giving her a shove in the back. Trevelyan bit back a yelp--Josephine was stronger than she looked--and caught her step, running her hands over her hair to smooth back the flyaways from her braid while she strode to the standing line.

Howe and Sera had emerged from the crowd. Howe had his chin lifted and back straight, an ancient longbow in his hands. A crest was pressed into the wood, and Trevelyan wondered to whom it belonged. Howe? Was that a noble family name? She should have paid more attention when learning heraldry. 

Sera whooped, her hands in the air, with a daring grin on her face shouting invectives about her opponent. Fair fight wasn’t in her vocabulary; the crowd tittered and laughed, amused by her daring. 

Trevelyan bit back a smile as she stood, waiting for them. The crowd hushed as the two competitors stopped in front of her, and Trevelyan caught out of the corner of her eye movement. Cullen, looking a bit put upon, Harding, smiling with her hands on her hips, and Warden Garren, looking back and forth from Amell to Howe, were lining up to one side of the impromptu archery range.

“Gonna beat your arse with my eyes closed, Howe,” said Sera, jerking her chin up and taking the golden wood bow off her back.

“A real professional doesn’t need to boast,” muttered Howe, but he was smirking.

“I’ll professional you!” Sera bit back. 

Trevelyan stepped cautiously between them and held up her hands, looking out over the crowds and waiting for the murmuring to die down. The yard hushed. From the back kitchen door, Trevelyan spotted the kitchen help peering out at the excitement. Everyone was there--she waited until Varric had appeared on the stairs and she had picked out Dorian, Cole and Vivienne, before taking a deep breath.

“Guests and members of Skyhold; my fellow soldiers and scouts of the Inquisition; our allies and friends, allow me to introduce you to a fine pair of archers. In the silver and blue, to my right, the Warden’s very own Nathaniel Howe,” she intoned, and took pleasure at the jolt in Howe when she knew his name. A ragged cheer went up; mostly Ferelden nobles, veteran soldiers, and common folk. Howe took a stiff bow, and Trevelyan spotted Amell smiling softly, her eyes bright. 

“And to my left,” continued Trevelyan, gesturing with the Marked hand while Sera braced a foot against a bail of hay and grinned, “in the red, our very own Sera, master archer, prankster, and killer of dragons!”

“That’s a right nice lot of words, that is,” muttered Sera, before she whooped and lifted her bow to the sky. “That’s right! I’ve killed plenty o’ dragons!”

A drunker cheer went up this time, full and excited, and Trevelyan was sort of pleased to see Sera had a home-town advantage in this. 

“Today, we’re to have a friendly competition of skill. To judge our competitors, may I introduce to you our own Commander Cullen--”

She had to pause as the soldiers cheered and more than a few shouted out his name, and Cullen remembered how to grin and sat back, trying to not look rather pleased. It was a cheeky grin that made Trevelyan’s heart flutter.

“--one of our most essential members, Scout Lace Harding--”

Harding didn’t seem able to decide what surprised her more; that the Inquisitor remembered her full name or that there was another cheer, louder than the first, from the Inquisition soldiers. Cullen leaned over to her and said something; Harding shook her head, but she was smiling.

“--and the brave Warden Garren, honorable member of the Ferelden Wardens,” she said, and the cheer this time was sort of weak at first. Warden Garren looked stiff and out of place, but then Amell cupped her hands around her mouth.

“Come on, Garren, show them what we’ve got!” she shouted, and that got the nobles yelling and the Ferelden born recruits joining in, and Garren’s mouth twitched and he made a show of focusing on the archery range.

Trevelyan’s cheeks ached from grinning. 

“Please stay out of the range and do not distract our archers,” she added. “Are we ready, Master Tethras?” 

“All set to go, Inquisitor!” shouted back Varric, and the Iron Bull gestured to his Chargers. Oh, so that’s who was going to man the targets and were the source of the weird constructions.

“Then let the competition begin!” Trevelyan announced, to wild cheers. Voice starting to hurt, she took a moment to study Howe and Sera.

“Good luck to you,” she murmured to them. “And Sera, no cheating.”

“Excuse you, don’t need to cheat,” Sera said, offended, and Howe snorted. Trevelyan patted her on the shoulder and then ducked back out, trudging back to her assigned seat with Josephine. The Iron Bull took over the yelling to explain the method of the competition as she found herself between Josephine and Amell. 

“Warden-Commander Amell was telling me that Warden Howe comes from a long line of archers,” said Josephine, touching light fingers to Trevelyan’s arm. Trevelyan returned with a distant, “Oh?”, distracted by the warm tingly feeling from the contact.

The first targets were set; Howe was taking the first shot. Sera stuck out her tongue at him. 

“Yes. His family was prominent in Ferelden before the Blight,” explained Amell, before falling silent--

Thwock!--

“You show them, Howe!” Amell shouted, jostling forward. Leliana laughed, catching her arm before Amell could go marching through the crowd.

“My, Warden-Commander, I never knew you were so passionate about bows,” said Leliana.

“When it comes to my command, you know I’m very passionate about bows,” said Amell, lifting a brow.

Leliana cocked her head with secrets tucked into the corner of her lips.

“Silly me, I should have remembered.”

Trevelyan tore her eyes away from them, focusing instead on the crowd. She had full confidence in Sera, but even she was moved to shout when Sera managed to skim Howe’s arrow and get a closer shot. 

“I hope you don’t mind that we borrowed one of your men, Warden-Commander.” Trevelyan gestured to Howe, back up as they moved the targets back. 

“Not at all, Inquisitor,” said Amell, favoring her with a smile with mischief tucked into the corners. It made her startlingly breathtaking; Trevelyan was getting weary of all these beautiful women around her giving her heart palpitations.

“It’s good for him,” Amell added in a lower voice. “Wardens, we live a dull and serious life. It’s good to see my men remember that they are alive. We’re not the Dead Legion; it’s too early to already have our funerals.”

The admittance stuck into Trevelyan’s heart, right in the middle of the worry she’d been pushing aside for weeks. Questions piled up, tremulous and urgent; what was it to be a recruit, would the others tear Blackwall apart for his past mistakes, would he be alright. She was angry with him, and had always been angry with him, and she was angry that she cared so intensely about the quiet and occasionally funny man, with the old world manners and the stern determination, who tried so hard--who had been one of the first to look at her and tell her she was an honorable person fit to lead.

Blackwall, perhaps before most, had believed in her. Before she’d saved him from the prison, at least.

Trevelyan blinked hard, looking away before her pause could become too suspicious and Amell’s sharp eyes could catch any of the complicated things lurking inside her.

“I’m glad to hear they have a Commander that thinks so,” she said. “I’ve always heard becoming a Warden can mean giving a man a second chance at life.”

“Some have said that,” said Amell, her expression closing off more as she grew more stern. Both of them watched Howe and Sera go again, this time for targets attached high to the barn walls. Howe was a touch off target; Sera was a monster, tossing her head with a mutter of something that made Howe frown as she hit the target dead center and the crowd roared.

“You don’t agree?” asked Trevelyan.

“No, I do. But it’s a hard life with great purpose that means always fighting something dark and ugly,” said Amell, lips in a thin line. “When the Wardens are at their best, they are good men and women uniquely capable of helping people. At their worst, well. You’ve seen the worst.” 

Amell turned to her, her smile wry; Trevelyan matched it, and for a moment understanding passed between them.

“I don’t envy your purpose,” said Trevelyan. “One large darkspawn is enough for me.”

“That’s enough for anyone, I think,” said Amell, smiling. “I’m glad you’ve got a good head on your shoulders, Inquisitor. If only more people in charge of things were like you.”

Trevelyan sputtered, pushing away the cup and concerned look that Josephine tried to press to her.

“Me? Oh Maker, no. I just ask the right people what we should do and choose the option that seems to make the most sense.”

“That’s what I mean,” said Amell, lips curling more.

“I do think if you compliment her any more, our dear Inquisitor may explode,” said Leliana, leaning in from Amell’s other side. “Trevelyan, your face is bright red.”

“No it’s not, I can feel it,” said Trevelyan, changing her mind and now grabbing the cup from Josephine. From Josephine’s noise of disapproval, it was Josephine’s own cup, but she didn’t care. She sipped from it -- oh thank the Maker, it was a sweet and delicate mead -- and tried to ignore the two older women as they laughed. 

“Oh, and there goes another shingle,” sighed Josephine, leaning into Trevelyan’s side. “What do you think those contraptions are for?”

Trevelyan pursed her lips, glad for the distraction as she tilted her head to the side. 

“The ones on the side? I think they might be mini catapults,” she said. 

“Catapults? No wonder the Chargers look so excited,” said Josephine.

“I’m a little scared to find out their plans,” admitted Trevelyan, and she looked back to the yard. Someone was lingering by the stables, outside of the attention of the crowds and the archers. 

Blackwall. A jolt went through her, an irrational panic. The Wardens weren’t going to drag him off right now. She wasn’t going to be forced to decide what her final words with him would be, yet. She’d ordered him to figure out how to be Thom Rainier, but even at the time she knew she’d been sharp and angry earlier more because of herself than anything he had done. Her grip tightened on the cup, wrestling with her own sense of morals. 

Leaving the situation a morass of unresolved regrets would only haunt her, and doubly-so if the next time she heard anything of him, it was an obituary about dying to darkspawn. She’d been avoiding him, and the conversation they were due, for a long time.

The roars of the crowd felt hollow now, and all the flushed excitement and good humour left her empty. Trevelyan fell silent as the wall of sound rose up around her, while her hands went numb around the cup in her hands.

There was a break for the archers as the mini-catapults were wheeled out into the middle of the range and primed with brightly colored, tiny sandbags. Sera was taunting Howe, but to his credit, Howe seemed to have decided to take her threats with a grain of salt and only offer her mild replies, which seemed to be annoying her far more than any other tactic could have done.

Blackwall leaned against the stable where her personal horse was housed. The chestnut Ferelden Strider mouthed at his dark grey hauberk, tugging, and she watched as he slowly gave in and dug out a treat to offer the greedy thing.

Maybe the problem was that she was the one who hadn’t yet combined the Blackwall she knew with the Thom Rainier in front of her. He’d lied. He’d yelled at her about dragging him out of his honorable, but suicidal, attempt at redemption. 

“Oh look, they’re going to see who can shoot the most in mid air!” cried out Josephine, jolting Trevelyan out of her wallowing. She jerked her chin up in time for the first volley --

“Pull!” shouted the Iron Bull, voice booming around the courtyard. 

\--Sera’s arms were a blur. Arrow, pull, shot. Arrow, pull, shot. As her arrows hit the color bags, they exploded with colored powder, drawing oos and aahs from the crowd. Trevelyan let herself be caught up in the excitement as Sera hit two, while two of her other arrows skidded off the battlements.

“Not her best,” came Cassandra’s dry voice from nearby. Perhaps Josephine had waved her down, somehow convincing her to draw close to nobles. Cassandra put a hand to her mouth, intent. “You can’t let these Wardens show up the Inquisition, Sera! Use the platinum arrows, they’re lighter!”

“Stuff a sock in it, Cassie!” yelled Sera back, making a rude gesture. “I ain’t listening to you, you just hit things with swords and couldn’t shoot the broad side of a nug!”

The crowd fell quiet as Howe took Sera’s place, a stack of arrows at his side and one knocked to his bow string. The wind skidded over the walls, pulling at the limp strands of his hair as he set lightly on the balls of his feet. 

“How close is it?” whispered Trevelyan over Amell’s head to Leliana.

“From the attitude of our judges, I’d say they’re neck in neck with Sera in a slight lead,” murmured Leliana back to her. 

The Iron Bull took his measure of Howe, and then lifted his arm.

“Pull!” he bellowed.

Arrows sang through the air. Blue, Red, then Yellow burst into colored powder, with no other arrows to waste. A green one was falling back to earth, but Howe clearly wasn’t going to be able to fit the last arrow to the bowstring in time. It didn’t matter much; he was in the lead.

“Oh, to the bottom of the Fade with that,” shouted Sera, grabbing an arrow from the pile beside Howe.

The green sac jerked as the arrow took it only a few feet from the ground, sinking it into one of the hay bales left on the range.

A roar ran through the crowd; people were on their feet shouting. Some called cheating; others shouted that it had been an incredible shot. Sera grinned widely at Howe, basking in his shock.

“Oh, for the Maker’s sake,” sighed Josephine. 

“I think that’s your cue,” said Amell, but Trevelyan was already wading out into the crowd and shouting for calm. She waded through to Sera and Howe. Howe looked far less disgruntled than she’d expected; he looked rightly impressed, and she caught a bit of his words;

“I reluctantly admit that was a fine shot.”

“Told ya I could shoot better,” Sera said. 

Trevelyan climbed up on a barrel near them, feeling it totter under her feet. She held up her hands for silence, wobbling a little, until she felt something hit her lightly in the back. She looked down and the Iron Bull was standing beside her, his sheer size making the crowd think twice about rioting, and she put a hand on the nearby horn to stop from capsizing. 

“Fine displays from both competitors,” she yelled, hoping anyone was listening. “But I think it’s up to the judges whether to count the last shot. Commander?”

She turned her head, and the crowd looked with her as Commander Cullen straightened from an intent discussion with Harding and Ganner. The three of them seemed to have been caught up in the excitement, for Cullen stood with great ceremony and brandished their score-point sheet the way he did field reports before his men.

“The judges and I feel that the last shot, while spectacular, does void the spirit of competition,” he announced, and people cheered in support and booed. 

“Wot? That was a great shot! Excuse you, didn’t say I couldn’t!” shouted Sera. The Iron Bull turned his head--Trevelyan let go just in time--chuckling.

“Hey, Sera, don’t get too angry. You gotta admit, it wasn’t your turn. It was badass, though,” he assured her. Sear muttered something under her breath, contrite and hunched. 

“Considering that the last round might not be fair, we’ve decided to give both competitors another round,” said Cullen, and this time at least the crowd quieted. “However, this time, we feel it’s worth upping the difficulty.”

“How in the world are you going to do that,” muttered Trevelyan to herself.

The Iron Bull heard her. He chuckled, while murmurs of excitement and confusion filled the air around them. 

“Just you wait and see, Boss,” he said. “Thought we might need a tie-breaker or something.”

“What’s it now? Little piece of paper tied to wild pigeons? I already thought of that,” said Sera. 

The Iron Bull was already turning away. 

“Alright, Skinner, call out the mages!” he yelled across the field, and Trevelyan stared after him. Well, then. She crouched down and hopped off her barrel.

“Inquisitor, your people really do love a show,” said Warden Howe warily, while the Iron Bull had a few of the rebellion mages enter the field. 

“You mean they’re all crazy,” said Trevelyan, grinning a little bit as she caught his eye.

Howe coughed. “It wasn’t me who said it.”

It seemed safe enough, now, that Trevelyan made her way back through the crowd. With the break in the competition, she watched some of the runners and junior soldiers struggling through the crowds to get refills for their betters. She snorted, and to her surprise, she returned to her spot to find Cassandra standing awkwardly next to Amell. The noble’s box had dissolved as some eager guests tried to take advantage of the chaos to get new seats, and Josephine was smooth-talking a few down from their indignation at the interruption. 

Again, Leilianna had disappeared.

“I am quite in admiration of your tactics,” said Cassandra stiffly to Amell. “The way you handled mixed forces is worthy of textbooks.”

Trevelyan stayed quiet as she presented herself at Cassandra’s side.

“I’ve heard a lot about you through Leliana,” said Amell cautiously, eyeing Cassandra sidelong. “My understanding is that you were one of the first to reject the madness of the Templar Order.”

“I simply did not agree with their decisions on how to best protect the populace,” Cassandra said, her fingers tight where they rested over her sword hilt. “I do not agree with abuse of power.”

“That makes you a unique woman,” said Amell. “I would have more like you in the Seeker or Templar Order.”

“The Seekers are a distinct order from the Templars,” Cassandra corrected tersely. She was in fine nervous form. “But we did not uphold our duties of oversight. It was our fault as we, too, had suffered internal conflicts of misguided leadership.”

“You owe me no apologies, Seeker.” Amell spoke evenly, her arms crossed over her chest but under the symbol of the Wardens emblazoned there, as if to underline it. “My hope is that going forward, you can help mold others to think more freely for themselves.”

Trevelyan put a hand on Cassandra’s arm, causing the woman to close her mouth on whatever she was about to say next. She leaned around Cassandra’s armed shoulder, catching Amells eye. 

“What she means to say, Warden-Commander, is that she holds you in high esteem and is glad to have the chance to finally meet you,” Trevelyan explained.

“That’s what I did…. Intend….to say,” Cassandra managed tiredly.

Amell’s gaze flicked between them, finally settling back on Trevelyan with a lifted brow. Trevelyan shrugged; Cassandra was adorable in her good intentions, but terrible in execution. 

Amell nodded with amusement tugging at her mouth. 

“I am honored at the regard of the woman who stood at the Right Hand of the Divine and helped strike down great evil in the absence of the Wardens,” Amell said more gently than before. 

“The honor is mine.” Cassandra’s relief was palpable as she turned her attention back to the crowd. “I do think they are ready to go again. What in the world are they up to? If they explode anything, I’ll murder them.”

“You won’t be the only one. I think Sera would scream and go in hiding,” added Trevelyan.

“Is she not fond of loud noises?” ventured Amell.

Cassandra and Trevelyan looked at each other in flat astonishment, but it was Cassandra who nearly started laughing first. A fit took Trevelyan.

“Oh, Maker no, Sera will occasionally douse herself in fire and throw herself into a battle,” said Trevelyan as she wheezed. “It’s magic she doesn’t like, it scares the willies off her. Probably why she’s been hiding to not talk to you.”

“But the Inquisition….” Amell said, brows furrowed, and gesturing vaguely at the mages, the Mage Tower, Lady Vivienne holding her own small court off to the side, Dorian wading into the range to tell the mage apprentices something, and then herself. 

“Don’t think about it too hard. Sera tries not to,” explained Trevelyan, laughter still gilding her words with light. 

“Strange woman,” muttered Amell, which just made it funnier.

“Mages to their places!” bellowed the Iron Bull, and Trevelyan tried to control her chuckling enough to pay attention. 

Apparently the last bit was Mages making the brightly colored bags float and move on command. When the first one began to lift in the air, Sera froze solid, staring in horror as it began to dip and bob.

“Oh no. Nonono. I ain’t shooting something floatin’ like it’s a ghost that don’t know it doesn’t belong in the day time,” Sera said, shaking her head and holding tightly on to her bow.

“Scared, Sera?” drawled Howe, picking up an arrow and smoothly adding it to his bow. His arms strained as he pulled the long-bow’s string back to his ear, studying the wobbling of the bags.

“I ain’t scared! When’d I say I was scared?” Sera shouted back, grabbing for an arrow and accidentally knocking four more to the ground. She knocked her arrow with a growl, lifting her aim. 

“Just not natural. Nothing should move like that.”

“Warden’s look into the face of ugly, rotting death every day. This is nothing,” said Howe.

“I’ll show you nothing!” shouted Sera.

“Most bags shot wins the round,” announced Cullen. “Competitors may shoot together. On your count, Bull.”

“Three!” shouted the Iron Bull.

“It's just a little magic,” said Howe.

“Two!”

“I ain’t listening to you anymore. Your face looks like an ogre smashed it,” said Sera, shoulders hunched.

“One!”

“I think she’s going to hit him,” mused Amell.

“Fire!” bellowed Bull, and the sound of bow strings singing filled the waiting silence. Shouts rose to deafening as Sera and Howe raced to be the first to pull down the weaving, dipping, dancing bags of colored sand. Trevelyan lost track of whose arrows hit which targets amongst the explosions of color. 

By the end of it Howe and Sera were both staggered and gasping for breath, sweat turning their skin bright and effort their skin red. While Krem waded into the range to start officially counting arrows with Warden Ganner and Scout Harding, Trevelyan watched Sera straighten up, eyeing Howe up and down.

“Not bad for a spindly Warden noble,” Sera managed.

“Not bad yourself, for a boney, foul-mouthed elf,” panted out Howe.

“Watch who you’re calling elf or I’ll put cockroaches in your socks.” Sera glared at him.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Howe, lifting one hand in defeat.

The judges spent some time talking amongst themselves. Trevelyan bounced on her heels, watching Scout Harding mediate between Cullen and Ganner. The two men seemed to be having a polite disagreement that involved posturing to appear very tall and crossing their arms to look very wide (Cullen frankly won that contest, but having a giant fur ruff was an unfair advantage). Trevelyan debated going over and defusing them.

“What a pity to watch two men waste their time on posturing,” observed Vivienne dryly, sweeping up to her. Trevelyan offered her a smile as she took the cup Vivienne offered her; Vivienne inserted herself with her, Amell, and a returned Leliana rather nicely. 

Cassandra made an impatient sound.

“For once I agree with you,” Cassandra announced, striding towards the men with the air of a thundercloud or large mother cat about to discipline her kittens by boxing them around the ears.

Trevelyan hid her amusement behind the edge of her cup.

“Much better to simply decide quickly on a victor, don’t you think, Spymaster?” offered Vivienne lightly to Leliana. 

“But that’s not very exciting,” replied Leliana in the same bright, contrived tone. “Where’s your sense of adventure? You never know; their decision might not be what we expect.”

“Some things are best done decisively after calm, logical thought.” Vivienne sipped her wine. “Rather than relying on sudden bursts of emotion, as most tend to do.”

Trevelyan decided that Vivienne and Leliana had not been talking about the archery competition from the start and tuned them out. Their politicking had only just begun, and it was a problem she’d eventually deal with. Later. 

“Inquisitor, who is that man lingering by the stables?” Amell had also abandoned the future Divine and Head Enchanter to each other, and stood now studying the shadow of Blackwall by the horses. A chill swept through Trevelyan’s stomach, and she drew in a fortifying breath. Her earlier, irrational fear swept back over her.

For a moment she debated lying.

“That is your new recruit, Warden-Commander,” she announced with more optimism than she actually felt. “Bla--Thom Rainier.”

“You still call him that here?” asked Amell, giving her a curious stare.

Trevelyan kept her eyes forward, focused on Blackwall and her horse.

“It was easier immediately after the fiasco. Not really as a name, more like a title,” she said, repeating softly the explanation he’d given her all those months ago. “A title of what he aspires to actually be. It also turns fewer heads when I have to shout for him in a city.”

“Some of the Warden command want to charge him for impersonating a Warden,” said Amel casually. “It’s a bad precedent.”

“I think he’s still suffering for it, for what it is worth.” Trevelyan felt herself go stiff. Her words sharpened. “And I think most of Thedas has been made aware of the deception. He could not get away with it now, and that’s certainly an example.”

Amell hummed to herself. “I’m surprised at your leniency. He sullied your reputation.”

“He also saved me on the field more times than I can count,” Trevelyan snapped. Her hackles rose, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. “He fought in the battle for Mythal’s Temple. He stood at my back against a dragon. He faced the hordes of Corypheus, and Darkspawn too, with nothing but sincerity in wanting to be a better man and make up for what he had done.”

“Meanwhile, his command took the fall for him,” replied Amell just as sharply.

“Yes, he did, and I don’t forgive him for it. I don’t forgive him for many of the things he’s done.” Trevelyan rankled; it felt like Amell was trying to make her angry on purpose. She eyed the woman; the mage stood stern and unmoved, mouth in a thin line and mind working swiftly behind her eyes. 

She calmed herself, force air into her lungs to a count of five, then out to another count.

“If you want my opinion on what he deserves, you already know. I’ve remanded him to the Wardens to do with him as you will. He’s not mine to worry about anymore. At least in your ranks he’ll serve the good use that the real Blackwall saw in him long ago.” It was hard to keep the weary sadness out of her voice; Trevelyan did not expect to sound so bitter, so tired. So heartsick.

Amell did not reply immediately. Across the field, Cassandra left the judges and the two men looked properly cowed. 

“I’ve had a lot of people serve with me, who many others said I should put to the side,” Amell began, her words measured and thoughtful. “A man who tried to assassinate me became one of my closest friends. I also met Nathaniel over there when he tried to kill me in misguided revenge. I’ve served with Qunari, lost Bards, an apostate who could turn into a wolf. All people others might have said I should have turned away, let alone allowed them to live. But I would trust them with my life any day.”

Trevelyan blinked as a few words stuck out to her.

“Wait, you know Morrigan?” she said with a start of surprise.

“I do.” Amell looked up at the sky, as if she could pick out Morrigan’s dark dragon form amongst the clouds. “I’m sad she left before I could get here. I heard she helped you.”

“She did,” Trevelyan murmured. “She was well.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Amell, before a little shudder washed over her and she seemed to draw back to earth again. “What I mean to say, is that I don’t fault you the judgement you made. Tomorrow morning, I’d like to have time to speak with him, so he may prepare mentally for what lays ahead.”

Tomorrow.

It would all begin to end tomorrow, then. The word rang inside Trevelyan’s head, drowning out the crowd, the tepid sun warming her hair and shoulders, and even Amell next to her. 

Tomorrow.

She drew in a breath, out of excuses. Arguments rose and died inside her. One more day. Two. Three weeks. Nothing would be enough.

“You may have him then,” she said. “It’s not like I have reason to keep him.”

Amell gave her a strange smile, then, but they were interrupted by Mathilda walking up to them. The runner looked between them, hesitating, and Trevelyan caught her eye and nodded.

Mathilda saluted her, fist to shoulder, abruptly formal.

“Commander Cullen says the judges are ready to make their announcement. They think it best if you deliver it, Serrah, for according to Master Tethras, you’re the closest thing to an official we got.”

“I don’t know whether or not I am complimented that no one seems to think that I’m a real official,” Trevelyan marveled aloud.

“I’d hold on to that for as long as you can,” suggested Amell dryly, and Trevelyan snorted. 

“Alright, I’ll be there in a moment, Mathilda. Dismissed,” she said, and Mathilda did a very good job of not rolling her eyes before trotting back into the press of people around them.

“If you’ll excuse me, Warden-Commander, I have an impromptu archery contest announcement to make.” Trevelyan sketched half a bow at her, just her arm swinging out and the barest bend of her back.

Amell inclined her head. “I won’t take offense.”

Trevelyan popped back up straight, paused a moment -- the urge to say thank you rose up in her, but the moment was gone -- and she turned to wade to her judges.

Since the lower courtyard was a miserable place to try to have any kind of official ceremony, and the un-official announcement location of Skyhold was the middle landing on the stairs that lead to the keep’s hall, Trevelyan ended up standing there next to the Inquisition Banner with their last minute judges arrayed behind her, and Sera and Howe to her right. Sera fidgeted at all this official attention, complaining loudly to anyone who’d listen that all this pomp and circumstance was a bunch of rubbish, but she still did it. Trevelyan could nearly call the way Sera shifted from foot to foot with her thumbs in her belt a sign of nerves.

“If Howe’s gonna stand up there like a stick in the mud and everyone’s going to make a big deal out of it,” Sera’d said, rolling her eyes and throwing up her hands.

Trevelyan looked out over the clustered throngs and thought to herself that Skyhold should hold events more often. Josephine had mentioned it more than once, and in the wake of saving the world, perhaps they all deserved some more time to sit down and appreciate the lives they’d wrenched from the jaws of darkness. 

She cleared her throat and stepped forward, chin up and voice ringing out across the courtyard. Wind tugged and snapped at the banner next to her, and she pushed the fluttering edges out of her way.

“Now to announce the winner of the first Skyhold archery contest,” she said. 

“About time, Tethras and Harding never followed through!” shouted someone that sounded suspiciously like a Charger, a spattering of laughter rolling through the crowd.

“I think it was worth the wait,” Trevelyan shouted back, pausing for the whoops to die down. “Judges, do you have your winner?”

“We do, Your Worship,” said Scout Harding, stepping forward. The three of them had made an odd collection--tall, very short, then medium height when all lined up together. Ganner’s warden blues were stark next to the russet colors Cullen favored, and Scout Harding was rough and tumble in her scout green.

The sturdy woman looked up into Trevelyan’s face with a wry look, holding out a hastily rolled piece of paper. Trevelyan took it with great ceremony, fighting down a fit of giggles. She felt rather like they were all children pretending to be grown ups. As she unrolled the paper and gazed out over Skyhold, the sun was just starting to kiss the tops of the distant mountains and outline them in gold.

“The winner, by a counting of points, as measured by an impartial panel of Judges Cullen, Harding, and Ganner,” intoned Trevelyan, indulging in another pregnant pause.

“Stop trying to peek,” hissed Cullen.

“Get on with it,” complained Sera.

“--by a count of three points, as earned in the second and final rounds, is Sera of the Inquisition,” Trevelyan finished, grinning madly. Sera whooped behind her; Cullen contained an amused noise. Half the crowd started to surge for the betting table and Varric sitting behind it, looking like a fine cat who had eaten several canaries. Trevelyan rolled the paper back up and stuck it into her belt, then grunted as Sera shoved past her and went bounding down the steps two at a time.

“In your face, Howe!” she howled. 

“You were a good sport,” Trevelyan said as she turned, finding Howe looking a bit put out but otherwise resigned. 

“It’s been a while since I tried to shoot anything that wasn’t rotting or poisonous,” said Howe stiffly. He looked away from her as Cullen suggested the Judges head into the safety of the main hall, rather than face any angry and maligned betters.

“Warden-Commander Amell mentioned it runs in your family,” she ventured carefully. 

“This is my family’s bow,” said Howe, studying the ash stave in his hand. He turned it over, rubbing his thumb over the crest burned into the wood. “It's one of the few things left from them. It’s far in the past, now.”

A pang ran through her. She stepped in closer to him to be heard over the noise of the crowd. 

“The Howes were…?” she tried delicately.

“Gone,” said Howe sharply, then he exhaled through his long and once broken nose. “It doesn’t bother me anymore, Inquisitor, you have no need to spare my feelings. I know your family name.”

“You do have me at a disadvantage, then,” she fumbled.

“Don’t take me wrong. I’ll beat your Sera the next time,” Howe said dryly. “Thank you for having me compete, Lady Trevelyan.”

That was something she hadn’t been called in a long time. She wondered if they had crossed paths once upon a time, in another life. Throat thick, she nodded mutely, before she could be thrown even more off her footing.

“I look forward to that next time, Ser Howe,” she tried, and in return she evoked the ghost of a smile out of the man before he trudged down past her. She turned to watch him rejoin the other two Wardens. Ganner gave him a hearty smack on the back with a gruff word, and Amell offered something pithy and dry by her expression. Howe barked a laugh, and the three headed into the tavern. Perhaps drinks for the man who had lost. They were certainly shortly joined by a surge of a crowd eager to show their good will to the Wardens.

It reminded her that she probably owed a drink or two to another man she had not sat with in some time.

Trevelyan turned to search for Blackwall’s silhouette amongst the crowd. She thought she spotted his distinct heavy shoulders heading to the kitchens, just in time to avoid the start of raucous partying out in the courtyard from everyone who didn’t fit in the tavern and who didn’t feel comfortable in the main hall. Nobles, commoners, and all between surged up the steps past her, but Trevelyan paid no attention to their words of thanks or congratulations. 

Trevelyan inhaled a deep breath for courage, and went to go find Blackwall.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A over-due conversation; a matter of names is decided; the Iron Bull provides some advice

While torches were lit in the yard and Skyhold’s guests drew together in knots of laughing, gossiping delight, Trevelyan wound her way from shadow to shadow back to the basement of Skyhold. It was a poorly kept secret that Trevelyan would escape down there when she needed time away from the press of day to day demands, and the kitchen staff more or less defended it for her. She wasn’t sure when that had started; it was sometime around when she’d discovered Cole arranging circumstances to solve the rat and pest problem in the pantry. When she passed through, the strong-armed woman working on preparing bread loaves for the morning’s ovens gave her a firm smile. The thin young man sweeping gave her a perfunctory nod. 

“Master Blackwall’s in the cellar,” he said.

“Thanks,” said Trevelyan, making sure to smile despite the feeling she was walking to the sight of her own grave making her fingers and toes feel frozen and her face stiff.

“Alls well, Inquisitor?” asked the baker, looking thunderous. Trevelyan found her smile turning more natural.

“Yes, please. It’s fine. Have a lovely evening,” Trevelyan assured them, before she turned back to the stairs circling downward.

She made no attempt to quieten her footsteps. They echoed off the chill stone foundation and hurried ahead of her in the gloom. Her stomach slowly tied itself in a knot of dread as she reached the bottom, and she found herself putting out a hand to steady herself as she took in the long table in the darkness. None of the wall sconces were lit, leaving the space in the dark except for the soft glow of a lantern set on the table. 

Within the ripple of yellow lamp-light sat Blackwall. His expression grim, he leaned on his arms and started down at them and his hands. A small carving knife sat on the table next to him, along with a pile of shavings that dusted his hands, the table, and the floor. Trevelyan couldn’t make out what he’d been making from this angle, and lingered instead on the dark slashes of the wrinkles in Blackwall’s face and how the grey seemed strong in the thick black of his hair.

She’d seen a portrait from when he’d been a younger man in the Orlesian army. She still couldn’t reconcile the brash clean-shaven young man with the one sitting in her cellar. 

“I have no place telling you where you should or shouldn’t be going, Inquisitor,” said Blackwall, proving himself the braver and Trevelyan the coward. He looked at her, and Trevelyan pressed her lips tightly together. “But you might as well come all the way into the room. As I understand it, there’s plenty to drink down here.”

Trevelyan pressed her feet into service, dipping into the wine cellar. Yesterday’s mediocre wine had been recorked and returned, but she wasn’t in the mood for getting drunk. She picked up a mead all the way from the Free Marches, a vintage made on the lands of one of the Trevelyan’s more distant neighbors. She could still remember tasting the honey brought in to her father’s estates, a gift for her mother, used to make the local brew.

It fit her mood to be maudlin as she returned to the table. She stomped over to the chair opposite the man she’d known as Blackwall, yanked out the chair, and thumped down the heavy glass bottle between them. Blackwall started and gave her a disbelieving, and somewhat concerned, stare as she yanked a pen knife out of her boot and started trying to work the cork free. 

“I owe you a drink,” Trevelyan said. “What’d you think of our little contest?”

Blackwall sighed and Trevelyan couldn’t help smirking a little at the mixture of fondness and stern exasperation that so closely cleaved to Cassandra’s reaction.

“Well Sera certainly doesn’t do anything by halves, does she,” said Blackwall. “Good on her standing up for the Inquisition, although I don’t know what she gained by it.”

“Pride and the center of attention,” Trevelyan replied easily. “She was worried about everyone, you know how she is. Can’t stand tension. She has to break it somehow.”

“Worried, is it,” he said, and for a moment-- just a moment -- Trevelyan could pretend nothing had happened. She could pretend they were friends, drinking on a rare night of idleness in the barn or out on the road, where Blackwall made alternately stern and dry comments that made her smile. Where she knew she could rely on him, that someone had her back, that if it came down to it she always had his sword and shield by her side. 

“That’s how I take it,” said Trevelyan.

The cork popped out suddenly and the cork went flying to roll across the floor. Trevelyan cursed.

“I’ll get it,” Blackwall offered, already leveraging out of his chair.

“No, sit. Let the cats find and play with it,” Trevelyan waved a hand at him. 

“Ever so gracious,” said Blackwall. He fell silent, and the awkwardness from their earlier conversation leaned in close. Trevelyan gritted her teeth as she snagged two abandoned cups on the table and poured for them both; the sweet smell of the mead perfumed the air and nearly covered the smell of mold and wet stone.

He looked at the cup she offered him, and then to her face, with the most weighty of expressions. Trevelyan grimly held it out to him, refusing to say a word to instruct, or demand, he take her gesture.

“You’re impossible to understand,” he said, low, as he took the cup.

“Me? I’m the one impossible to understand?” she demanded. “I’m not the impossible one here, Blackwall.”

“You can’t even call me by my name without choking on it,” said Blackwall. He grimaced and looked away from her, regret already wrought on his face. 

“And whose fault is that?” she snapped back. “You don’t make this damn thing easy when you wince when you hear it. Is it easier if I just say Thom? Or Rainier? Which name do you prefer, the one you stole or the one you abandoned?”

Anger and pride rippled through him, a tension that ran through his shoulders and ground his teeth. She watched his fury at the dig, watched him wrestle it down, and watched him swallow it along with a mouthful of mead and tell himself not to snap at the Inquisitor who could have, could still perhaps, ended his life.

Trevelyan waited. She waited with glittering eyes as he swallowed, letting the silence press the answers out of him.

“I can’t tell you,” he said. She set her jaw. “I don’t have the right to tell you what to think of me.”

“That’s a shit answer and you know it,” said Trevelyan. “Give me something, Blackwall. I don’t want to lose you like this.”

It had just slipped out of her, but in speaking it aloud the wound in her was fresh again and her voice shook. It made Blackwall look at her -- really look at her -- as she put her hands over her face. 

“I hate this,” she said. “I hate all of this. Just tell me who you are, Blackwall, so I can decide if I am forgiving you or if I’m supposed to feel heartsick forever.”

“I,” and Blackwall stumbled, his fingers shifting on his cup. “Inquisitor, I am not a man worth being heartsick over.”

“You don’t get to choose that!” Trevelyan jerked upright, slamming down a fist on the table. The bottle rattled. “You don’t get to choose how the people around you feel, Blackwall. I feel like one of my closest friends has died and his ghost doesn’t know if he wants to be an adult about it or just keep running.”

Blackwall looked down into his cup.

“You know where I stand,” he said slowly. “You’re the one who dragged me out of that Orlesian prison.”

“Yes. Yes, I did. And I suppose you will resent me for it for the rest of my days,” said Trevelyan. All the anger drained out of her and she slumped back down again, rubbing her palm against the burning in her eyes. “I can live with you hating me, I suppose. I knew that when I did it. I still wouldn’t change my mind, if I had to do it all over again.”

“I expected you to bring me back here to kill me yourself,” said Blackwall. HIs voice had turned the same sort of defeated sad from when he’d sat, alone with her, in the tavern and done his sideways best to tell her he was a terrible person. 

“What sort of demon must you have thought me, to think I would do that,” said Trevelyan. 

“No! No.” He heaved a heavy, bone-weary sigh. “I thought it appropriate. If the victims of what I had done didn’t get to see me personally hang, I’d rather it was you who passed that judgement on me.”

“Lovely. I’m your preferred executioner.”

“Yes.” Blackwall met her startled eyes, unwavering. “There’s no one I respect more. It would have been an honorable end.”

Trevelyan pressed her lips tightly together, to hold back the tight ache in her throat. 

“Blackwall. I couldn’t kill you. I don’t know what you really deserve, but I respect the spirit of what you were trying to do too much. A man who wants to make amends, in whatever way he can.” Trevelyan swallowed hard. “You’re my friend, Blackwall. I want to believe in you, but you make it damn hard.”

“I don’t know what it is you see in me,” he said. He pressed his mouth into a line. “I know it put you at odds with the Commander. He knows when to put down a mad dog.”

“Stop it,” Trevelyan snapped, but it was tired and too often repeated to have much sting. “Cullen can think whatever he likes.”

“There’s plenty who likely say you were too soft on me,” said Blackwall. “I don’t…. I dislike thinking that by showing me some sort of misguided mercy you injured your position.”

There was a beat as the thought sunk in. Trevelyan rose to her feet in her astonishment.

“Seriously?” she said, voice shaking. “That’s what all this routine is about? Because you think by pardoning you to being doomed to become a Fade-dammed Warden, a slow and painful death after spending a few short years fighting the worst things in the earth, I may have lost a few points here or there with the rest of the Inquisition and Orlais?”

“What you are doing here is important,” Blackwall began to fumble out, but Trevelyan cut him off with a sharp gesture through the air that grabbed his words and yanked them away from him. She was, suddenly, furious. 

“Do you really think I care about that? Who do you think I am?” she said, hot fury easier to wrestle then thick and cold loss. “I’ve never done something just for some status. If I cared about that, I wouldn’t have a hand that grows green or be friends with any of you. Yes, I try to do what Josephine asks of me, and I play their games, but only if it's for the right cause. I don’t care if Orlais sneers at me about mercy to a man they’ve thrown away. I don’t care. You’re mine, Blackwall. You’re one of mine, and that matters.”

By the end of it, Trevelyan’s lungs burned as if she’d spent an hour fighting rift-spawn. Flushed, she no longer felt the cellars chill, and her arms and hands were shaking. 

Blackwall stared up at her with open dismay, and for once--for once--the closed self-deprecating sorrow had been replaced by something else. Guilt wrestled with something else, something that Trevelyan saw sometimes in the Chantry. Deeply moved. 

“Evelyn,” he said. “I. I’m sorry.”

Trevelyan studied the rough pattern of the wood between her two palms pressed to the table. 

“You’re one of mine,” she repeated softly. “I’m so mad at you, I’m furious. You caused the needless death of children because you wanted to save your own skin. But you also lied to me. You lied to everyone, but you lied to me, even while you wanted to somehow make amends.”

Blackwalls silence didn’t make her angry this time.

She gestured loosely at the cellar, and Skyhold, and hard-won sprawling forces of the Inquisition that Blackwall had helped her build. 

“So what is it, Blackwall?” she asked. “Is it Thom, Rainier, or Blackwall? Are you the ghost of the man I knew, or someone to whom I get to actually say goodbye?”

Blackwall took his time forming an answer, but at least he seemed to consider her words with serious weight. He set down his cup and, instead, picked up something small from the table that Trevelyan had missed in the dark. He held it in his hands, turning it over in his thickly scarred fingers as if it could divine for him the answer. 

His voice came out thick, but at least now it sounded like himself -- and not a guilty, pale imitation.

“Thom seems a fine enough name between friends,” he offered slowly. “It doesn’t fit right, really. I’ve been Blackwall long enough, it seems more appropriate -- but you’re right. It's not really mine.”

Trevelyan found herself smiling, but there was no joy in it. The shake in her arms and hands steadied. 

“Alright, Thom,” she said softly, trying it out. “You know, I might never see you again after tomorrow.”

“I know.” His chair creaked dramatically as he stretched back in it. “I know. I-- I owe you better than I have given you, Inquisitor.”

“Evelyn or Trevelyan, please,” said Trevelyan. “Andraste knows, I’m tired of being the Inquisitor today.”

And, miraculously, Thom Ranier smiled. Even if it was a gallows humor sort of expression, even if it was self-deprecating and his eyes were somber. 

“Trevelyan,” he settled on. “I always seem to understand the weight of my folly a few hours too late.”

“Don’t we all,” said Trevelyan. “I’m still astonished at how well you destroyed your Orlesian accent.”

Thom snorted. 

“Couldn’t do it right anymore if I tried,” he admitted. “I must admit, if we are honest. I don’t know what to expect from the Warden-Commander. It’s too rich a pedigree for just picking up a criminal.”

“I think she’ll be fair,” said Trevelyan. “I guess that’s the best any of use could hope for. She understands that sometimes, people can be better than their past choices.”

The thought hung heavily in the air. Thom braced himself and sat up straighter, putting the thing in his hand firmly on the table between them. 

A wooden horse about the size of her hand stood firm in the guttering lamplight. It was clearly a cold-blooded stallion, the kind that she saw all the time back in Ostwick, with a heavy curved neck and one hoof curled up mid-prance. The details were a bit square and the mane roughly finished, but it was sturdy and recognizable.

Trevelyan slowly reached her hand out to it, casting a questioning glance to Thom. He nodded.

Once in her hand, she could feel the planes cut by Thom’s idle knife. There was an obsessive, iterative quality to it, and she could easily imagine him sitting to the side of the contest with restlessness driving him mad with the nearest piece of wood in his hands.

“It looks like my family’s crest,” Trevelyan said softly as she turned it over. 

Thom cleared his throat. “My mind was wandering. I thought I might leave it somewhere for your men to discover after I left.”

Trevelyan shut her eyes, leaving her hands to explore the divots and curves. The careful jut of a shape above the eye, the wide slope of its nose. 

“May I keep it, then?” she asked.

“If you’re fond of it,” Blackwall said, mostly into his beard. 

Trevelyan smiled. She set up the little horse on the table to watch her lift her cup in salute to the man across from her, the man who had fought demons and darkspawn and stranger at her side for years. 

“To a new life,” she said.

Thom breathed out heavily, but he did eventually raise his cup.

“To old memories,” he added, and they both drank.

For the first time in months, perhaps a year, Trevelyan sat and drank with Thom Rainier like a companion rather than a prisoner. The conversation drifted in and out of silences. Trevelyan did not much mind matching the somber mood. By the time the lantern oil had been reduced to a thin coating on the inside of the lantern’s well, the mead had long ago been drunk through. She left Thom at his personal quarters inside the barn loft, but when she looked at the edifice of Skyhold outlined against a heavy moon she could not bring herself to walk back inside. 

The bitter cold of the battlements suited her mood better. She stood on the north facing wall, where the winds that rushed down off the Frostbacks blew hardest. Her breath turned into grand clouds of steam and she crossed her arms over her chest as every metal bit of her clothes turned to ice. While sitting with Thom, she’d been able to focus on the conversation and drawing out of him bits and pieces of the story she didn’t yet know; where he’d grown up, the hobby of woodcraft, and the youth spent training with the Chevaliers. She hadn’t realized she’d been savoring every moment, shoring up her memories with one last good one, until she was now standing here and feeling hollow.

Passing soldiers exchanging watch left her more or less alone. When they greeted her, she gave them a nod but didn’t turn her face to note who it had been. So she was genuinely surprised when a large shape settled next to her with a gusty, familiar sigh and joined her brooding.

“I thought you and your crew would either still be drinking or starting to sleep it off,” she said as she tilted her head back to examine the Iron Bull’s expression. He cut an intimidating figure in the dark, his grey skin easily matching the shadows and the set of his wide horns breaking the sky. 

The Iron Bull grunted. “Krem’s sent all the kids off to bed. Me, I won the drinking contest.”

His expression broke into a toothy grin that Trevelyan couldn’t help but return.

“I imagine so,” she said. “No trouble, I hope.”

“Nah, things stayed under control. Varric’s good at crowd control, and he’s good at keeping things jolly but not, you know, destructive.” The Iron Bull scratched at the stubble shading his jaw. “Smarter guy than he likes to let on. Good leadership material, you know, the kind that actually runs things and makes sure the sewers work.”

“He is,” she echoed. She turned her attention back to the blue angles of the mountains and clutched her arms more tightly around herself, pretending it was due to the cold. 

The Iron Bull took a delicate pause. 

“You look like you could use a stiff drink,” he offered with a carefully crafted casual air. “The Tavern’s pretty much empty.”

Trevelyan snorted. “I just finished drinking half a bottle of very strong honey mead.”

“Hah, that’ll just give you a headache in a few hours,” he said. “We both know you can drink more than that.”

“Maybe of normal alcohol,” she said wryly, side-eyeing him. “I know better than to try to beat you at drinking that acid you call liquor.”

“Awe, Boss, but it was fun,” he said. He turned and gestured grandly back at the dark form of the tavern, lights still on but without any figures visible through the windows. “But that’s only for special occasions.”

Trevelyan wondered if Bull was trying to remind her of the drinking contest on purpose to lighten her thoughts, to remind her of bonds and companionship. It was obvious enough he was trying to save her from herself, and for a moment stubbornness dug in her heels. She wanted to be difficult. She wanted something to struggle against, something to scream at. 

“I can think of one thing better than drinking,” she said.

It was nice to see the Iron Bull sort through surprise as he arched the eyebrow over the remaining eye. “What could that possibly be?”

“Swinging swords,” she said. “I could really use a round of just hitting something.”

“You know, some folks might hear that and take it a different way,” he said, but he wasn’t saying no.

Trevelyan paused, thinking about Leliana and the Warden-Commander, wondering where they were and if they were taking advantage of one last night together after months, years, apart, and then she shoved at the Iron Bull’s immovable side. 

“Do you think about nothing else?” she groused.

“Just keeping my options open,” he said, laughing, but he gamely followed her down off the wall and to the practice yard. Only the night watch, looking a bit hungover and surly, had managed to stay awake to the Maker-forgotten hour, which meant they had the entire yard to themselves and Trevelyan didn’t have to make any excuses. She knew the Iron Bull was indulging her, but she didn’t dwell on it too hard as she hefted one of her back-up greatswords and eyed the looming qunari stretching on the other side of the yard.

Trevelyan’s blood thawed as she bounced on her feet and swung her arms to wake up her body and drive out the last, sticky taste of mead from her mouth. When the Iron Bull squared up and gave her a nod, she held nothing back.

Trevelyan started out relatively composed, ducking wide swings from the mass of metal that the Iron Bull preferred, but it frayed quickly. She could feel her control slipping, weariness of more than one sort burning away the edges of her composure and focus to turn into the battle-fury they both weaponized. The Iron Bull surged to meet her, yell for yell, hard slam of metal against blade. 

He turned himself into a shore line to beat herself again, a cliff she could attempt to climb, a battle to tear herself apart. It all bubbled up out of her; the way everything seemed to be slipping away, the uncertainty, the sense of an age coming to an end and at the bottom, when she had borne the worst of it and she’d taken everything she had to throw at him, she found only one thing.

Fear.

Trevelyan fell to her knees in the churned dirt as all her strength left her and all that remained was burning muscles and the cold air cutting through her lungs. She set her sword down with shaking hands and put one over her mouth, holding the keening sound back inside as she shook. She didn’t know if it was exhaustion or something else. 

The Iron Bull’s shadow fell over her, but it did not make her more cold. His big hand rested on her shoulder.

“Boss? Hey. Let’s get you inside, okay. It's pretty cold out here and we both need some water,” he said, and Maker, he could have the gentlest voice when he tried. All that basso rumble turned into something protective and kind. 

“Right,” she managed into her fingers. “Right. Yes. You’re right, of course.”

His sturdy frame helped her to her feet in a polite hand on her elbow, and the other picking up her sword. He set both weapons aside as she found her balance and sleep-walked to the tavern door. It wasn’t locked and swung open as she pressed her weight against it. 

Despite the early hour and the fire gone to ashes in the fireplace, Trevelyan still flushed as she stepped inside due to the sudden warmth. Her fingers and toes tingled as she claimed a chair askew next to a table far from the door, next to the looming boxes the Iron Bull often used as his own kind of throne. As she dropped down to sit, the Iron Bull detoured and reappeared with two big wooden mugs in his hands.

She took the water from him gingerly, not trusting her grip, and found herself staring at her broken reflection in the water. 

The Iron Bull settled next to her with a creaking of wood and leather. He threw back the water in gusty gulps, downing half the oversized mug in one go. Some of the water ran down his chin, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand before settling back and allowing her silence.

But not for too long.

“You wanna talk about it?” he said. Trevelyan caught her upper lip in her teeth. 

“I must have let the battle-rage get away from me,” she said, but they both knew that wasn’t what he meant. He gave her a sidelong look and she sighed, sinking down in her seat and morosely sipping at her water with both hands like she was back to being fifteen years old at the keep’s wide kitchen table forced to peel potatoes for shoving her cousin into a horse trough. 

“I’m being irrational,” she tried again.

“Lots of you folks seem to think feeling things means being irrational,” he said. “Its ignoring it that gets you in trouble. You can’t control what you don’t name.”

Trevelyan shoved her mug away from her, in the direction of the edge of the table. Searching for a name to her dread.

“I don’t want him to leave,” she admitted, at last. Her voice small and shaken. “I hate that the Warden-Commander is here to do it. She’s overshadowing everything. I’m being so Maker-damned petty. This isn’t about me.”

“Why not?” said the Iron Bull far too casually. She knew he was doing the thing, the Spy thing, the thing where he looked right through a person and read all their thoughts. She hated him for it for a minute, but then let it go. 

“Because I did this. I gave Thom to the Wardens.” She threw up her hands. “He’s confessed to his crimes, I can’t forgive him, but I don’t want to lose him either. I’m sure I sound mad.”

“Nah. ….Nah,” said the Iron Bull. “No more than anyone else in this crazy place.”

“I must truly sound strange to you,” she said, with a thin smile. 

“I’ve gotten used to how you people think,” he replied. “Look. He’s one of your people. He’s your responsibility, yeah? Then they send this big-shot Warden under pretenses to get him. We all know that’s not why she’s here. They used you.”

Trevelyan set her jaw as she studied the shiver of the water in her hands and how it steadied.

“It's easy to forget that she was ruthless enough to bring down an Arch-Demon with just one other Warden and some moldy treaties,” she said. “I know she’s up to something, it's not that. It’s just.”

Her swing of her arm took in the whole tavern.

“First it's Thom Rainier. Then who’s next? I can’t.”

The words stuck in her throat.

“I can’t keep all of your here forever.” Her eyes burned again. She swiped at them with an angry jerk of her hand. “You all have bigger, better things to do. Its normal. But I can’t help feeling like the Warden-Commander is stealing something from me, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.”

The Iron Bull’s silence didn’t feel pre-mediated this time, and Trevelyan looked at him with too many feelings tied up in the back of her throat. The look he gave her had surprised eyebrows but a wry twist to his mouth. The crate creaked as he set his weight on the edge of it, close enough that she could feel the great amounts of heat that poured off his scarred skin.

“Hey.” He touched her shoulder, like asking for permission. Confused and aching, Trevelyan just nodded. 

The Iron Bull held a specific kind of consideration for touch. He spread his hand over her back, nearly eclipsing it, and incredibly warm. Then he pulled her off her chair and next to him, where they could sit side-by-side and he could drape his giant arm over her shoulders. Any lingering chill fled in the face of Bull’s furnace heat, and she leaned into his side and shut her eyes. And finally, she gave up pretending that nothing about this was hard. That none of this bothered her. That sometimes, she just wanted to stop being the one who had to keep up a good face.

She wondered what her older brothers were doing. If they were safe.

“I must really look pathetic,” she said.

“Nah. You care about your people, Boss,” he said, and she felt the words more than she heard them. “Fuck the Warden-Commander. She’s got her own shit to do. You’re the Boss, here, and you’re the reason my people are alive.”

She squinted up at what she could see of his jaw.

“Nobody is going to take anything from you that you don’t want,” he told her, fierce. “You don’t let them. You’re gonna give up Thom Ranier, even if he’s a little shit for what he did to his command, exactly when you’re ready. As for the rest of us? Even if we’re not here, not in the Inquisition -- fuck it. We’re still yours.”

“Í like to think we’re friends,” she said. “Am I right, Bull?”

“Of course you’re right,” said the Iron Bull. “I mean, hell. I’ve already thrown everything away for you, you really think something like a little awe from some Warden’s gonna change that?”

Sitting like this made her feel strangely assured. She nodded, feeling her hair catch on leather buckles. 

“Thank you,” she told him. “I know I only barely understand what all that means. But never doubt the depth of my thanks that you are here on my side.”

The Iron Bull snorted. And also, not for the first time, Trevelyan wondered if she’d done the right thing. He’d made her make the choice for him; he’d put into her hands the fate of his people, but also his own. He was excommunicated in a way far more profound than any Templar leaving the order, but with the same jitters and shakes for a resource taken away from him. The surety of the Qun was lost to him now, and the security of knowing he was a tool and all he needed to do was act.

But that wasn’t quite true. She could see it in how he wrestled in this moment, setting his jaw at the mention of his betrayal of his people that her rarely ever talked about. 

The Iron Bull had begun questioning a long time ago, and it had never stopped. He knew that.

“It's done now,” he said, coming to the same conclusion. He let go over her, and left her unmoored in her seat. “But seriously, the Warden person does magic and that’s just weird.”

Trevelyan barked a laugh that came out more of a sob, but she rallied. 

“Of course that’s the biggest problem, Bull,” she said, rolling her eyes. “As if we don’t all know about you and Dorian.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, but his eye twinkled in the low light.

Trevelyan slapped his arm and sat back. Breathing came to her easier now, and she took advantage of the ebbing adrenaline to really look around herself at the left-overs of the day’s partying. Honestly, not a terrible send off to a man remanded to the Wardens. At the very least, she’d shown the Wardens a good time.

A wave of exhaustion crashed over her, pulling her eyes shut hard enough she had to fight them back open.

“Thank you,” she said again, before trying to rub some last bits of energy back into herself by pushing her palms so hard into her eyes she saw stars. “I do mean it. It's kind of you to listen to me complain.”

“Hey, what’re friends for?” The Iron Bull clapped her on the back and nearly sent her tumbling to the ground, but it did propel her to her feet. “Just don’t tell the Chargers about it, or else they’ll all start clamouring for hugs and Krem will feel left out.”

“I wouldn’t dare,” she replied. “Maker, I’m tired. And tomorrow will be early, I swear not a single Warden I have met knows the meaning of sleep.”

“Must be all those nightmares they talk about,” said the Iron Bull.

“Must be,” said Trevelyan, feeling the weariness down into the ache of her marrow. “I’ll take myself to bed. Have a good evening, the Iron Bull.”

“Steady on, Boss,” said the Iron Bull. “And if you change your mind, you know I’ve got your back if you’re gonna duel a Warden mage.”

Trevelyan took the moment to truly consider it. 

“I appreciate it,” she said. “But I think Josephine would kill me.”

The Iron Bull shuddered dramatically.

They parted in the courtyard. Trevelyan dragged herself up the winding stairs to her rooms; it was nice enough that she had the highest, most isolated bedroom, but she certainly earned it every time she went there. The balcony doors were still cracked open, but someone had set a slow-burning fire in the grate, so the room remained pleasantly warm but still smelled of fresh snow. 

Trevelyan worried she would not sleep, but in her exhaustion, it was dreamless.


End file.
